“Ah, Fame——!” he said.
The handle of the door moved, clicking in its turning, and Pangbutt, looking over his shoulder, where he stood by the edge of the great screen, saw the door open, and a haggard face look in. The intruder came into the room a step or so.
Pangbutt gasped with frank surprise:
“Anthony? Good God, where have you sprung from?”
“Sorry to come before the light has quite gone, Paul; but I’m starving.”
“Starving?”
Anthony nodded his head:
“H’m, h’m! There you have the real devil in the machinery—and I’m turning on the lime-light of confession.” He glanced round the great studio deliberately: “This is rather a handsome room to confess in—a palace to our rooms in the old Paris days, eh?”
Pangbutt was cudgelling his wits to say something that would discover the presence of the seated lady behind the screen to the careless intruder, when Anthony strode up to him; and as the corner of the throne came into his range of vision beyond the end of the screen, he caught sight of the tray with the bright tea-things upon it.
“Food, ye gods!” he cried, and strode towards the tray. “Paul,” he said hoarsely—“I must have food.”