As we passed the front door it swung open, and
showed Jimmy the artist sitting at the bottom of a newly-cleaned
staircase. He waggled his hands at us, and when we entered we saw
that the man was stricken speechless. His eyes grew red--red like
a ferret's--and what little breath he had whistled shrilly. At
first we thought it was a fit, and then we saw that it was
mirth--the inopportune mirth of the Artistic Temperament.
The house palpitated to an infamous melody punctuated by the
stump of the barrel-organ's one leg, as Giuseppe, above, moved
from room to room after his rebel slave. Now and again a floor
shook a little under the combined rushes of Lord Lundie and Sir
Christopher Tomling, who gave many and contradictory orders. But
when they could they cursed Jimmy with splendid thoroughness.
"Have you anything to do with the house?" panted Jimmy at last.
"Because we're using it just now." He gulped. "And I'm
ah--keeping cave."
"All right," said Penfentenyou, and shut the hall door.
"Jimmy, you unspeakable blackguard) Jimmy, you cur! You coward!"
(Lord Lundie's voice overbore the flood of melody.
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