Anthony put out his hand:
“I say—couldn’t he—leave the tray? I see some crumbs.... Bring another tray, Dukes.”
Pangbutt signed to the old butler to wait:
“A glass of wine, Anthony?” he asked.
“Tsah! you don’t understand, Paul. I’m not playing with my vitals—I’m starving, man,” he said hoarsely.
“A chicken?”
“D’you mind it cold?”
“Heavens, Paul! I shall die in the midst of all these elaborate courtesies—this rigid etiquette!”
He sank down wearily upon a corner of the painting throne, and fidgeted with the tea-things on the tray.