"Night, Perry!" ejaculated the Empress. "What—the ladies?"
"Only till they retire, Henrietta, of course. If they damage the bedrooms they shall answer for it, though!"
The Emperor delivered the last sentence with the sudden rapidity and power of a thunder-clap. The Empress, who was now beginning to take a back seat, looked admiringly at her lord.
"Ah, Perry, what a man you are!" she murmured.
"They shall find out what sort of a man I am, if they try on any of their tricks here," said the Emperor. "If so much as a bit of wood's chipped off, or so much as a parrot's missing, they'll regret it—to their lives' end, they will!"
But now, with the inconsistency of woman, the Empress returned to her former complaining.
"Yes, I daresay," she said, in a whining voice; "but having it out of them in the end won't make up to us for all we have to go through. Think of it, Perry! You and me not able to be in the home, not able to sit at tea in the hall, not able to hear that"—she waved her plump hand sorrowfully at the orchestrion—"of an evening! Oh, Perry, think of the silence—think of the silence!"
And here the Empress wept as women weep at the silence of the grave. The Emperor looked at the orchestrion.
"We might take it with us, perhaps," he said musingly. "It would be a comfort to us, Henrietta, that can't be denied."