Blotte roused; laughed; strode into the middle of the great room. He turned gloomily:
“No—I go to a mighty banquet, old friend. I go to sup with the gods to-night.”
“Now, now,” said Fluffy Reubens, sprawling in two chairs. “Chuck it, Blotte—you make me feel as cold as a dead undertaker.... Lor!” he yawned, “this is precious slow.” He yawned again: “Paul Pangbutt’s a confounded long time, ain’t he? Scenting his beard, I suspect!”
Andrew Blotte roused from his mood, and he began to pace up and down the room as before: “No more Italian waiters for me—with cursèd oily locks,” he cried—“no more grease-spots on dingy grey tablecloths that hide their offences under smiling napkins!... To-night I shall be waited upon by the gods.... Never again the boiled potato; never again the homely bun, damn them!... This is the night of life—a night for music and gaiety and minstrelsy.... Hunger shall cease, and pain——”
Rippley went up to him and took him by the shoulder, kindly:
“Stop it, Blotte. Aren’t you well, old man?”
Blotte laughed:
“Well?... Psha! I am like a boy. The new genius arrives to-night. And I go off—to sup with the gods.... The world has forgotten Andrew Blotte.”
Rippley turned, a twinkle in his eye, to the others:
“I say, boys,” said he—“as it’s to be a unique night, and Blotte about to be translated, and may be in the papers in the morning——”