Pangbutt’s handsome studio had been cleared for a reception; and the deliberate old butler, throwing open the great folding-doors, walked stiffly into the room and glanced an orderly eye round the brilliantly lighted details in a last complacent survey before the near arrival of the guests.
He started at a loud peal of the door-bell, and pulled out his watch:
“I hope they are arriving early enough!” said he. “It comes of arsking these here artists to the house.... They’re always hungry and they’re always noisy, and they’re always thirsty. Even if I suffered from these here afflictions I’d have the manners not to show it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I call it letting ourselves down. They don’t even know how to put on their clothes like Christians.”
He straddled stiffly out of the room, grumbling and mumbling.
“Leastwise not like Christians of the Established Church,” he growled....
He returned after awhile through the great hollow of the handsome doorway, ushering in four guests.
When they had entered, he said stiffly:
“Mr. Pangbutt, I fear, will not be down for several minutes, gentlemen; he has only just come in to dress.”
He drew out his watch from his pocket, and glanced at it aggressively.
Robbins laughed gently, and winked to the others: