“Poetry is fallen on rough times indeed,” said he.
Pangbutt stood frowning at the riot. How these tomfools took him back to the years of his insignificance and Paris!
The door was flung open and a stoutish woman, her hands thrust in the side-pockets of her jacket, stepped into the doorway with swaggering stride. Glancing calmly round the room, she called airily, in a strident, jolly voice:
“How do, Pangbutt?”
She nodded to him:
“They told me this rotten party was to be at Jack Lawrence’s. But his place is as black as your blooming frontispiece. I’ve been huntin’ for this scum all over the shop, until a policeman sniggered and told me there was a deal of cock-crowin’ goin’ on here.” She turned to the roomful of them: “Hullo, boys! and what are you all up to?... Nothing unladylike, I hope, eh?”
She laughed the question jovially.
“No, no,” they all cried.
Blotte waved his arm, standing by the barrel:
“Come along, jovial Emma,” said he, and hiccuped.