“Oh, Mr. Vivian, I’m so glad you’ve come! Let me introduce you to my great friend Eureka”—the lady in vermilion bowed absent-mindedly, and rolled her huge brown eyes wearily at the Prophet—“and to Mr. Briskin Moses.”
The little gentleman made a stage reverence and fluttered his small hands airily.
“Pretty sight, pretty sight!” he said in a quick and impudent voice. “All these little dears enjoying themselves so innocently. Mother Bridgeman’s chickens, I call them. But it’s impossible to count them, even after they’re hatched. Cheese it!”
The final imperative was flung demurely at a mighty footman, who just then tried to impound Mr. Moses’s not quite finished brandy-and-soda.
“Sir?” said the mighty footman.
“Cheese it!” cried Mr. Moses, making a gesture of tragic repugnance in the direction of the footman.
The mighty footman cheesed it with dignity, and afterwards, in the servants’ hall, spoke very bitterly of Israel.
The Prophet was extremely anxious to get a word alone with Miss Minerva. Indeed, it was really important that he should warn her of Sir Tiglath’s approach, but he could find no opportunity of doing so, for Mr. Moses, who was not afflicted with diffidence, rapidly continued, in a slightly affected and tripping cockney voice,—
“Mother Bridgeman’s a dear one! God bless her for a pretty soul! She’d be sublime in musical comedy—the black satin society lady, you know, who makes the aristocratic relief,—
“‘I’m a Dowager Duchess, and everyone knows I’m a lady right down to the tip of my toes.’