Gomme’s level voice went calmly on:
“Tsh!” said he, “you’re a perambulating monkey, scented and got up and flung upon the town by Providence to remind us all from what we came—and to what we may return—if we forget that we were meant to grow into God’s good image.”
“You—you’re a common fellow!” said Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott.
Gomme’s keen eyes remained fixed on him with a steady contempt, that ate even into this dunce’s conceit. He went on, giving judgment on the travesty of manhood that sat before him:
“You silly fool! It’s disgusting that a pretty woman can’t walk down the high streets of the most civilized city in the world without the risk of some painted peacock of an ’Arry like yourself——”
“’Arry, indeed!” bleated the exquisite. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott was wounded in his most religious parts. “I have the blood of the Plantagenets in my veins,” he said.
He was very indignant. He spoke with simple faith, as if of the certainty of a glorious resurrection.
Gomme turned, and called out:
“Open the door, Oliver!”
The door swung open, and discovered Noll at the head of the stairway, gripping a long broom in his hands.