“I beg your pardon, I am late I fear.”
He shook hands with Lovegood and Aubrey; and, turning to Ffolliott, a faint smile flickered over his worried face:
“Ffolliott!... Sorry to be late, but there have been domestic difficulties—my butler has gone sick.”
The guests were arriving fast.
“Mistair Maupassant Fosse!” bawled Rippley at the door.
The little man glared at the servant, fussed into the room, and tripped across to his host.
“A nickname they have for me,” he said—“a nickname....”
Rippley watched Blotte solemnly tramp down the stairs, his wig on one side; heard him announce to a lady, just arrived, that he was going to sup with the gods; and he was gone.
Groups of guests came swarming up the stairs and passed into the studio.
Rippley, glancing into the studio, saw the white satin dress of Ffolliott move uneasily amongst the arriving guests; and he heard his thin, affected drawl as he explained to his host: