Adrian flung back his head, and spoke from a still loftier altitude.
"I believe you are the master of the house?"
"The titular master," Anthony distinguished. "I years ago resigned all real power into the pink and chubby hands of my mayor of the palace." And he slightly bowed.
"I disdain to answer your silly quibble over the word guest," Adrian continued, ignoring the rejoinder. "La Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca is a guest. And as master of the house, by your return, you ex officio supersede me in the capacity of host."
"Ex officio?" repeated Anthony, considering. "The fashion of adorning ordinary speech with classical quotations has long since passed from use."
"And therefore,"—Adrian brought his theorem to its conclusion,—"unless you particularly aspire to seem—and to be—an absolute barbarian, a bear, a boor, a churl, and a curmudgeon,"—each epithet received an augmented stress,—"you must call at Craford New Manor with the least possible delay. As I find myself in rather good form just now, and feel that I should shine to perhaps exceptional advantage, I suggest that we call forthwith."
Anthony got up, and sleepily stretched his arms.
"Ah, well," he consented; "since your fond heart is set upon it—there. It will be an awful fag; but when Dimplechin becomes importunate, I can deny him nothing."
He stifled a yawn.
Adrian's round face radiated triumph.