"I hope so, indeed!" murmured Mrs. Verulam. "Let me make you known to them. Mr. Bush—the Duchess of Southborough, Lady Pearl McAndrew——" She named her guests.
Mr. Bush plunged his head in their direction, without deigning to glance at them.
"Mad, I s'pose!" he resumed to Mrs. Verulam. "Mad as Moses!"
Consternation now reigned among the inmates of the palace, who began to fear that Mr. Bush was giving a name to his own private affliction. Even Mrs. Verulam felt a certain diffidence steal over her at so definite an inclusion of all her party within the sad circle of a supposititious lunacy. But she guessed Mr. Bush to be a bit of a wag, like most great men. Doubtless he was only having his little joke. Still, she felt quite definitely that this fact should be made apparent to the Duchess and others with as short a delay as possible, so she hastened to reply:
"Ah, Mr. Bush, you mustn't make a joke on so serious a subject as madness."
"Joke! There's no joke! Where's the joke of being potted at like a rook in January? Joke, indeed—joke!"
He blew forth a perfect volume of angry breath.
"A rook in January?" said poor Mrs. Verulam, in consummate perplexity, and really beginning to have her fears for her guest's reason.
"Aye. If I'd have stayed he'd have had me. I wasn't eight paces off him."
"Unless the other gentleman was an unusually indifferent shot," remarked the Duke, glancing at Mr. Bush's gigantic bulk, "I must say I think Mr. Bush must have stood in some slight danger. Did you not stay, then?" his Grace added, addressing himself to the narrator.