"Who wants Bush?" continued the owner of the name. "Eh?"
"I do!" suddenly shrieked Mr. Ingerstall, protruding his caricature beneath the eyes of Mrs. Verulam's ideal. "I do! I ask you, I ask you confidently, is that a bullock, or is it you?" And, thrusting the paper between Mr. Bush's fists, Mr. Ingerstall flung himself back in his chair, puffing with all the generous indignation of insulted and misunderstood genius.
The Duke with very great difficulty restrained himself from a nasal "Joey!" succeeded by the time-honoured "Here we are again!" which is the proper prelude to jokes of the more practical order. Mr. Rodney opened his eyes and sat a little forward on his chair; and Mrs. Verulam, speechless with horror at Mr. Ingerstall's named outrage, gazed steadily at the Turkey carpet of the hall, and wished it might engulf her. Meanwhile, Mr. Bush stared upon the work of art with his goggling red-brown eyes and said nothing.
"Is it, I ask you once more with perfect confidence," snapped Mr. Ingerstall with rising excitement—"is it a bullock or is it you? Come, come!" And he slapped his fat hands with great violence down on his knees.
"Me!" mumbled Mr. Bush at length. "Me! What d'yer mean?"
"What I say, Heaven preserve us all! What I say!" screamed the artist.
Mr. Bush looked from the outrage to its committer, and appeared to be measuring the latter with his eye. Having done so, and apparently found the result to be satisfactory as compared with his own measurements, he remarked: "This me!" and made a movement suddenly as though he were about to get up.
"Go it!" said Miss Bindler sharply, planting a single eye-glass rapidly under her left eyebrow, and screwing up her cheek. "Time!"
Mrs. Verulam became breathless with excitement. Her gaze was fastened upon her hero. A thrill ran through the house-party. With his huge hands upon the arms of the chair, Mr. Bush lolled forward towards Mr. Ingerstall and became brilliant.
"I ask you with confidence," he bawled slowly, "is this here a bullock, or is it me?"