Slowly, slowly, the presence passed between their eyes and the candles towards the door: the eighth candle, the ninth, tenth, eleventh——
“Talbot, hold that door!” cried de Travest.
Someone laughed.
“Who laughed?” sobbed Lady Pynte.
Lord Marketharborough spoke: “What is this absurdity, sir? Who the devil are you? Speak up now!”
They saw the door-knob turn, they heard it turn.
“Not so quickly!” cried de Travest. “We can’t let you go so quickly!”
“Gently, Guy, gently!” said Mr. Warp. “Let him go. We can then discuss the matter at our leisure.”
They saw the door open, an inch, a little further....
“The word ‘devil,’” said a voice from the opening door, and the very voice, said Dwight-Rankin, seemed to smile in a cold but charming way, “the word ‘devil,’ my lord, comes very apt to this moment; and is, if you but knew it, more precisely organic to the occasion than at any previous time in the life which you have dedicated to me with such high scholarship, iron principle and lofty ardour. But I must take this opportunity to protest,” warmly continued the voice of Captain Charity, “against the present frivolous use of such major expletives as ‘hell,’ ‘damnation’ and ‘devil.’ They were created only for occasions of deep corruption, for moments of incredible baseness, for profound and monstrous annoyances, and, in particular, for use during times of inconceivable boredom. For instance, I might with propriety apply each one of them severally to different aspects of Lady Surplice’s charming dinner-party; but courtesy forbids. I give you farewell, my lord, ladies and gentlemen.”