'But I thought that, if you could satisfy them—or get off somehow—for—well, one thousand pounds or—or at most one thousand five hundred pounds' (Peggy was very agitated over her amounts), 'that—that I and some other friends could manage that, and then—why, we'd tell her it was all right!' A hint of triumph broke through her nervousness as she declared her scheme. 'I can't be absolutely sure of the money except my own, but I believe I could get it.' She worked up to a climax. 'I can give you five hundred pounds now—in notes, if you like,' she said, producing a little leather bag of a purse.
Fricker gave a short dry laugh; the whole episode amused him very much, and Peggy's appearance also gratified his taste. She unfastened the bag, and he heard her fingers crackle the notes, as she sat with her eyes fixed on his; appeal had been banished from Peggy's words, it spoke in her eyes in spite of herself.
'Mrs. Trevalla has perhaps told you something of her relations with me?' asked Fricker, clasping his long spare hands on the table.
'I don't defend her: but you don't fight with women, Mr. Fricker?'
'There are no women in business matters, Miss Ryle.'
'Or with people who are down?'
'Not fight, no. I keep my foot on them.'
He took up a half-smoked cigar and relit it.
'I'm not a Shylock,' he resumed with a smile. 'Shylock was a sentimentalist. I'd have taken that last offer—a high one, if I remember—and given up my pound of flesh. But you expect me to do it for much less than market value. I like my pound of flesh, and I want something above market value for it, Miss Ryle. I've taught Mrs. Trevalla her little lesson. Perhaps there's no need to rub it in any more. You want me to make her think that she can get out of Glowing Stars without further loss?'