"I daresay it is—when it's lighted," said the Duke, with a prolonged snigger.
Mr. Rodney got violently red, and lit eight or ten matches all at the same time.
"Well done, Rodney! Set the place on fire!" cried the Duke. "What the deuce is that?"
It was merely the noise made by Mr. Harrison as he raced to the telephone to acquaint the Bun Emperor that Mr. Rodney was at present engaged in igniting the palace. Concealed among the pedals of the organ, the groom of the chambers had been doing detective duty.
"It sounded like athletic sports on an oil-cloth," continued the Duke, while Mr. Rodney held his cigar in the match flames till it glowed like a furnace. "Well, as I was saying, now we can say what we like. Tell us a good story, Rodney—one of your rorty ones."
Mr. Rodney shrivelled.
"I fear," he murmured—"I fear I am scarcely in the—the—er—rorty vein to-night. To-morrow—the next day—perhaps——"
"Well, then, you tip us one, Van Adam. Give us some of your Florida experiences among the orange-girls. What? Go ahead!"
Thus adjured, Chloe said:
"Some of the girls in Florida do such lovely needlework, you have no idea."