ARRIVED in his own hall, Dwala became aware of a faint shrill voice talking rapidly and jerkily, accompanied by an even whirring noise. He opened the library door. The room was lighted brilliantly. To the left sat Hartopp, in evening dress, in a big armchair, with his leg on another chair; a champagne bottle and glasses were on a table beside him; he was smoking a fat cigar, and grinning as he listened. Below him, sitting on the floor, with her pale face thrown back against the chair, was Joey fast asleep. In the middle of the room sat Huxtable, serious and concentrated, managing the gramophone: one hand hovered over it, deft, square, and muscular, lightly adjusting some moth’s wing of a lever in the instrument. Beyond him, in the background, was a stout, serious, important looking man, with his face blacked—a nigger minstrel in red and black striped trousers, with a tiny doll’s hat pinned on the front of his head—who rose respectfully at Dwala’s entrance, a glass of champagne in one hand and a banjo in the other.
Evidently Huxtable had been doing his best to entertain the guests.