The barrel was carried at the run to the most handy armchair, and plumped into the seat. The handicraftsmen of Louis Quinze must have turned in their graves--it was a fine specimen of the period. With a whoop they set hiccuping Andrew Blotte astride of the barrel--one of the girls, picking up his wreath of roses, which had fallen to the floor, set it awry on his head. From under its shadow his eyes blinked drunkenly at the room. The men were all smoking. Rippley came forward and, addressing Pangbutt, said: “You don’t mind our smoking, eh?” Pangbutt shrugged his shoulders: “I was not aware my permission was necessary--but of course----” “_Of course_ you don’t,” roared Rippley; and turning to the others he put his tongue in his cheek: “Gentlemen, you may smoke,” said he; “nor, indeed, has friend Paul any conscientious objections to the ladies smokin’.” He turned to the red-haired man with the trombone: “Milk the bell,” said he, “my fluffsome Reubens.” The red-haired fellow with the incipient beard, whom they called Fluffy Reubens, uttered a startled wail on the trombone, and walking over to the bell-pull, tolled the bell solemnly as he might have milked a cow. He smiled at the peal that rang and rang through the house: “It’s rather a good bell,” said he. “Nothing throaty about its top notes.” He turned to his scowling host: “We will put you to as little trouble as possible, Paul,” he said--“so I ring the bell. But if you would not mind asking your swoggle-eyed bottle-washer for the glasses it wouldn’t strain the etiquette----” Rippley burst out laughing: “That idiotic hireling man of yours thought we were bailiffs--his language was really quite naughty--for a butler. So Fluffy flung himself at his old legs and I clapped a hand over his fowling-piece--the language was within an ace of being obscene. We whipped him off his legs and sat on his chest and head, or he would have bawled murder. Of course we _quite_ understand, indeed sympathize with, his haughty attitude towards tax-gatherers; but we cannot lightly put aside his stone-blindness to genius when he sees it in full flare of the electric light----” The old butler, sulky as his master, appeared at the door and stood there with stiff dignity. Rippley turned to him: “Glasses, mister!” cried he. The old servant took not the slightest notice--he was deaf to all vulgar appeal. Pangbutt nodded to him: “Glasses, Dukes,” he said. “Yessir.” The old man solemnly turned and left the room. Fluffy Reubens, who had been gazing sentimentally at the portrait upon the easel, turned to the gilt chair that yawned empty amidst its picturesque setting on the painter’s throne: “What! the society beauty has flown!” Rippley kissed his hand to the portrait: “I put it,” said he, “that Eustace Lovegood take the beauty’s chair.” There was a din of acclamation; and the big man stepped tragically on to the throne and took the seat. His pale face smiled.