“Get out,” said she. “But look here, Master Andrew, what have you been doing of late?”
He stood swaying and balancing himself, the wreath awry on his head, and hiccuped:
“I’ve been trying to discover the source of heartburn in a radish,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stay any longer, adorable Emma,” he added flirtily, “but will you come with me to the sunny south to see the almonds bloom?”
“Oh—get out!”
He sighed:
“Well—I must go alone.” And he added dramatically, spilling much beer in Emma’s lap: “Away from this black cauldron of the city, to meet the pageant of the Spring!”
He turned and shuffled over slowly to Paul Pangbutt:
“Good-bye, old—Polyglot!...” He crooned. “I forget your name—but I’m sorry I can’t stay.... This palace of varieties” (he waved his arm round the room) is most alluring—but I’m sorry—I can’t stay.”
Pangbutt nodded, humouring him:
“I understand,” he said.