Ponsonby’s fish-like eyes travelled slowly from the Canon to the stout lady, and he positively blinked when he saw the rakish cock of her crape bonnet. Otherwise his massive face expressed no emotion.
“White satin, sir?” he repeated, slowly. “I’ll inquire.”
“Or satinette,” added Canon Spratte, unmoved.
Ponsonby did not immediately leave the room, but looked at the Canon with a mystified expression. His master smiled quietly.
“Perhaps Ponsonby does not quite understand. I mean, have we any gin in the house, Ponsonby?”
The emotions of horror and surprise made their way deliberately from feature to feature of Ponsonby’s fleshy, immobile face.
“Gin, sir? No, sir.”
“Is there none in the servants’ hall?”
“Oh no, sir!” answered Ponsonby, scandalized into some energy of expression.
“How careless of me!” cried the Canon, with every appearance of vexation. “You ought to have reminded me that there was no gin in the house, Sophia. Well, Ponsonby, will you go and get sixpennyworth at the nearest public-house.”