“D’you know—I feel such an ass——”
Pangbutt patted him upon the shoulder:
“Never mind,” said he absently—“it can’t be helped. Make the best of it.”
“Oh, but I assure you—they told me it was to be a fancy-dress affair.”
Rippley bawled at the door:
“Sir Gilders Cinnamon!”
Sir Gilders Persimmon shuffled into the room; and Pangbutt went to meet the old baronet.
“Lady Persimmon coming to-night, Sir Gilders?” he shouted into his ear; the old man shook his head.
“Sorry,” bawled Pangbutt into his ear; “Sir Gilders, allow me to introduce Mr. Fosse, who, I need not tell you, is the well-known critic. He has written a eulogy of Anthony Bickersteth that is to appear in a few days—you must win his favour to your poems.”
The old baronet cackled with senile laughter.