"Yes; her Grace does know a good bun," rejoined the Emperor. "'Your buns are exquisite'—you remember, Henrietta? That bit of bun-praise did us more good than ever that Lady Sophia's will, I'll lay. Hon. Miss Bindler?"
No response from the Empress. No comment from the Emperor.
"Lady Drake!"
Ditto.
"Mr. Hyacinth Rodney! Fiddle-faced beast! Mr. Ingerstall! What d'you think of him, my dear?"
"Not much," said the Empress. "Not much, Perry. He sounds to me like one of those nasty little fellers that go worming themselves about in places where they've no business."
"He'd better let Mr. Harrison catch him worming himself about when he's here!" cried the Emperor with a sudden explosion of passion. "There shall be no worming here, Henrietta, if I have to go against my word and turn them all out neck and crop into the street."
In moments of emotion the imperial minds instinctively returned to early Camberwell days, and fell into the dear old Cockney habit of supposing that on making an exit from any building whatsoever, the person so doing must immediately find himself in a street. As a matter of fact, Ribton Marches stood majestically in its own grounds of some sixty acres, or thereabouts.
"Mr. James Bush!" cried the Emperor, partially recovering self-control.