But Rippley had turned to the strange figure of Andrew Blotte. He smote him on the shoulder with strong genial hand:
“Cheer up, Andrew,” he cried.
Blotte smiled wearily; he roused from his brooding; he was very pale:
“Where’s the bar?” he asked gloomily.
Rippley laughed:
“Vanity Fair has not opened her drinking-saloons yet,” he said. “We’re all before our welcome.”
Blotte sighed, and said absently:
“I have come to tell Pangbutt I cannot sup with him to-night.” He smiled a pale sad smile; and, rousing, added moodily: “I came into my Irish estates last night—took over the keys of my castle in Spain.... Last night I slept under the blue quilt, and filled my belly with the north wind. And,” he added hoarsely, “to-night I sup with the gods.”
Rippley shook the moody man by the shoulders, and gripping them in his big kind hands, he said:
“Shut up, Blotte; you’ve got to sup with us to-night—gods are a large order, even Aubrey is not yet translated.”