There was a loud ring at the door-bell.
Rippley skipped back to the cabinet: and from the cabinet he ran to Andrew Blotte:
“Blotte, old boy,” said he, pulling a red wig over the gloomy man’s head and combing the lank red hair down the sides of his pale face—“you must look after the cloak-room and change the tickets and mix the hats.... Ha-ha!” He laughed mock-tragically. “This night must never be forgotten!”
“It never will,” said Blotte; and laughing grimly he got striding again in the red wig, as Fluffy Reubens and Doome burst into the room.
“Here, Fluffy,” said Rippley, “quick, man! put on this yellow wig, and comb it well over your eyes. There isn’t a moment to be lost; Doome, here’s a black moustache and a greyish wig—this is the way to stick it on—see? Splendid! Makes you look like a broken-down Italian tenor.”
He searched about in the cabinet and found a stubbly black wig which he pulled over his own hair, and was at once a son of France:
“Look here, boys, I’m head-waiter, see! And when I bow, you bow: and when I rub my hands, you rub your hands; and don’t forget the foreign accent—try to talk English as you used to talk French.... Doome, you stand at the landing below, and see that old Dukes don’t stir a step from the door—and bawl up the names from him. And you, Fluffy, play the general ass. I’ll stick to the door here.... Are we all right now?... No, Blotte’s not enough disguised. Here, Doome, fasten this fierce moustache on his lip, whilst I shut up.... O lor! here they come!”
Rippley had scarcely hurried into his coat when there entered and halted in the great doorway a hesitating figure in the white satin dress of a courtier of Charles the First, lace frills at his weak knees, white stockings, white shoes, and holding a plumed hat in his hand.
His eyeglass dropped out of his eye, and he stood there stuttering and aghast.
There was a titter.