"Oh, what is it?" said Mrs. Verulam, hastily withdrawing her skirts—"what is it? Is it alive?"
"In Paris I flatter myself they would say it was," he gabbled under his breath. "For in Paris art is alive, breathing, vitalised, full-blooded, fearless, sensuous, daring. God knows what they would call it in England! Look at it!"
He popped out his hand under their noses, holding a sheet of paper, upon which was drawn a thing as fat as a pig and as hairy as a porcupine, lying on its back, with feet, as big as houses, pointing to the sky, while from its mouth, wide as a witches' cavern, floated on a scroll the following legend: "Never give a bullock sulphur!"
"It's very like," remarked her Grace, after a moment of contemplation—"very true to life. Don't you think so, Mrs. Verulam?"
"I don't know what it is," said Mrs. Verulam, in great perplexity; "is it meant for a bullock, then—after the sulphur?"
Mr. Ingerstall's monkey-like face was suffused with indignant blood.
"A bullock!" he cried poignantly. "It's Bush!"
The shrillness of the exclamation thus wrung from outraged genius not only made all the awake members of the house-party jump, but even pierced through the hide of the paragon's tough sleep.
"Bush!" he said, sitting up with a snort; "who's a-wantin' me? Is it time to begin hoein'?"
There was a dead silence. Nobody grasped the inner meaning of the final query.