“Pooh—pooh!” said he, drawing himself up; and he strutted to the door.
“Poof—poof!” said Rippley. “Giddy old thing!”
He glanced over the balustrade down to the next landing, and caught Doome’s eye:
“Beelzebub!” he growled—“the whole town’s coming to this silly theatrical affair.... I say, we ought to go and see that Andrew Blotte’s mixing the hats thoroughly. Hullo! There’s Anthony Baddlesmere just arrived. Wait, I’ll come down. I want to see him.”
He made his way down through an ascending stream of newly-arrived guests, with some difficulty, just as Ffolliott, seeing Sir Tankerton Wollup hesitate at the door, went up to the great man mincingly, and said affectedly:
“Oh, I say, Sir Tankerton—d’you know, I feel such an awful ass—but they told me it was a fancy-dress affair.”
Sir Tankerton, staring with bloodshot eyes of ruffled dignity at the thing before him, sniffed.
“Go away!” he said testily.
Ffolliott went away.
As the pompous millionaire stood irresolute at the doorway, an absent-minded snuffy little old gentleman shuffled up to his elbow, followed at a couple of paces by a little faded old lady of withered prehistoric design, and, touching him on the sleeve inquiringly, said: