“Ay, I sup with the gods to-night.... And I can hear the guests arriving—all the clever fellows that have made the world a delight—and with them come the dear dead companions that worked with us, and sang with us, and drank with us—in Paris.... I know them—they talk such damned bad French.”
Rippley went and touched him on the shoulder:
“Blotte, old boy; you’re very queer to-night,” he said. “You make me feel as blue as a newly-clipped hearse-horse.”
Blotte roused, and moved towards the door; halted; turned to them all:
“I say I sup with the gods to-night—and mix the hats—and set the table in a roar.... I must hasten away.... I hear them call.... God bless you, dear boys! we shall meet in sunshine——”
Rippley stepped to the door:
“Quick!” said he in a hushed whisper, “make a line, quick there, you Fluffy, Doome, Blotte, to my left here at the door. Here comes Pangbutt.... He blows his nose like the old nobility.... Come along. Blotte—don’t look like a broken-down anarchist in an advanced stage of pip. You must affect the smiling, friendly, neapolitan manner, expectant of a fee.”
As Blotte’s pale face took on a deathly smile, Rippley bowed, and there stepped into the open doorway the well-groomed figure of their host.
Pangbutt halted, perplexed.
He gazed in vague consternation at the Vandyke travesty in white silks before him—turned to the solemn countenances of the four waiters: