“May I ask what, in the name of Beelzebub, is happening in this house?” he asked.
Rippley clasped his hands together unctuously, bowed, smiled a large Italian smile. He advanced a step, and said with a strong foreign accent, picking his words with slow deliberation:
“Sir Pangboot—it has arrive to ze domestic bootler that he is indispose sudden-ment. I am he’s friend that he have ask to take he’s place, vis my asseestants.... Your house shall have ze much honour in my hands—we have the habit to attend ze best families——”
There was a loud ringing of the door-bell.
Pangbutt put his hand over his eyes:
“I must be going mad,” he said.
Rippley bowed:
“Sir Pangboot—me and me friends, we speak not very well ze Engleesh—but we much understand it well—and——”
“Yes, yes.” Pangbutt dismissed them impatiently. “Get to your business.... Curse it! I wonder what on earth ails Dukes.”
As the four comic-looking foreign waiters left the room, he hesitated, bewildered. And Rippley, as they passed out, nearly burst a bloodvessel as the tragic Blotte’s moustache fell off. But Pangbutt had suddenly remembered that he was host; and advancing into the room he turned to the others: