He stretched out his hand to the tray—halted—hesitated—stood up and took off his hat, as, on passing the screen, the enthroned sitter came into his view.
He bowed:
“Madame,” said he—“I apologize for my want of manners. The truth is I pawned them weeks ago—with my waistcoat and the last family portrait—a miniature of my uncle the general—a most polished person, who would have died of an apoplectic fit to see himself coming to move in such mixed company——”
Pangbutt coughed; and mumbling their names, as the fashion is, he introduced them, adding:
“A friend of mine—from Bohemia.”
His eyes laughed to her. He turned to Anthony as the two bowed to each other formally:
“Anthony,” said he—“the sight of you takes me back to Paris—and makeshifts.”
“Makeshifts!” Anthony laughed sadly, and, rousing, added—“I say, Paul, have you finished with the crumbs on that tray?”
Pangbutt uttered an embarrassed laugh, and went and rang the bell.
“Anthony was always impatient for the dinner-hour,” he said—and turning to Dukes as he appeared at the door he added—“Take away the tray, Dukes——”