"Well, what if it is?" exclaimed the Duke. "Does America go to bed at seven?"
"Oh, I don't say that——"
"I should imagine not. Anyone would think we were a lot of damned old women. Here, pour some whisky down your throat and look jolly."
Chloe obeyed the first command but not the second. Mr. Ingerstall, at this point in the carouse, bounced up from his chair, muttered some French oaths, and suddenly tore upstairs.
"There's another cheery soul!" said the Duke after him. "We might all as well be Sunday-school teachers at a Methodist funeral at once."
He was proceeding to various other comparisons of a like innocent and respectable nature, when the air was rent by an exceeding loud uproar. Mr. Rodney caught hold of the sides of his chair and cried, "What's that?"
The Duke looked hastily at the organ and Chloe apprehensively at the ceiling. The uproar was repeated, and then they became aware that it came from the nose of the paragon, and signified that he was resting.
"Oh, it's only Mr.—it's only Bush asleep," said Chloe.
"Asleep!" said the Duke, with a bitter sneer.