Mr. Bennett danced with silent irritation, and, striking a bare toe against the leg of a chair, seized his left foot and staggered into the arms of Webster, who had been preparing to drift off to the servants’ hall. Linked together, the two proceeded across the carpet in a movement which suggested in equal parts the careless vigour of the cake-walk and the grace of the old-fashioned mazurka.
“What the devil are you doing, you fool?” cried Mr. Bennett.
“Nothing, sir. And I should be glad if you would accept my week’s notice,” replied Webster calmly.
“What’s that?”
“My notice sir, to take effect at the expiration of the current week. I cannot acquiesce in being cursed and sworn at.”
“Oh, go to blazes!”
“Very good, sir.” Webster withdrew like a plenipotentiary who has been handed his papers on the declaration of war, and Mr. Bennett, sprang to intercept Mr. Mortimer, who had slipped by and was making for the stairs.
“Mortimer!”
“Oh, what is it?”
“That infernal dog of yours. I insist on your destroying it.”