Blotte laughed grimly, where he paced:
“Oh, yes,” he growled—“I shall be in the papers to-morrow. Have no fear of it.”
Rippley slapped him on the shoulder:
“Then,” said he, “we ought to give Pangbutt’s house an air. There is a lack of the grand manner here. One man-servant is ridiculously inadequate. At least three of us ought to assist to wait on the guests. Doome and Fluffy and I and—and you, Blotte—would make a ripping lot of waiters, and it wouldn’t be half so slow as talking art and rot to people who don’t know.... Genius shall serve the mob. This night must never be forgotten. By Macready, yes—Pangbutt used to play at play-acting! But where are his properties?”
Blotte was striding the room; he laughed:
“Ay, ay—the gala-night of life should be gay and joyous,” cried he—“all the candles lit, as for a bridal.” He came to a halt, scowled at the dark hollow of the great doorway, and strode thither.
The old butler was lurking suspiciously outside.
Blotte grabbed him by his coat lapel, and drew him into the light:
“Hireling fellow,” said he, “bring more lights. This place is like a damned omnibus.”
The old butler held out an expostulant palm in dignified remonstrance: