"It's a blinking invasion," said Mr. Gunthorpe. "I tell you we can't do it. Good heavens, they threaten to stop a month if they are comfortable."
"Don't worry then, old bean. They won't stop long." This in the voice of boots.
"And they want special diet. Old girl can't eat meat. Suffers from a duodenal ulcer. I tell you, we got quick intimate! We can't do it, Molly."
"Fathead, of course we can. I'll concoct her something the like of which her what-you-may-call-it has never before tackled. Run along, Bill, and be affable."
"Shall I stand them a drink?"—Mr. Gunthorpe again.
"Do, old bean. I'll come and have one, too," said boots.
"You won't, Bob. You'll see to the chauffeur and the car, and the luggage."
"Hang the luggage! I'll stand the chauffeur a drink."
Then the female voice spoke warningly.
"You've had enough drinks already, both of you," it said. "You ought to bear in mind that you're not running the hotel just for your two selves."