‘Sir Pompey Malahide is here,’ said I sternly to the smart maid that opened the door.
‘Yes, sir,’ said she.
‘I desire to see my father,’ said I, and marched boldly towards the furious racket that filled the room near at hand—the paternal roar distinctly discernible, bassoonlike as though he cried small coal.
I flung open the door—burst upon the riot——
On the floor lay the Byronic Bartholomew Doome with three children rolling over him—three, no less!—another in his arms—Sir Pompey Malahide, my father, on all fours, pretending to be a she-bear, his coat-tails over his head, shaking a footstool in his teeth, and growling like an ass in pain—and seated on the immaculate waistcoat of the dark mysterious Bartholomew the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen. The din infernal—and Pa the worst part of the din.
‘What does this mean, Pa?’ cried I.
They gathered themselves up, shamelessly—laughed—ye gods, twittingly, at me! Wholly unabashed, Pa, shaking himself into comfort in his clothes, slapped me upon the back:
‘Horace, my son——’
‘Don’t be familiar, Sir Pompey,’ said I. ‘You are speaking to the heir to a baronetcy.’
The baronet laughed vulgarly: