But he was too sharp for her. He did not fall into her artless trap. He was lighting his cigar, but he broke off the operation (it was not often that he had been known to do that), and leant across the table towards her.
'My God, child, have you got the money?' he asked her in a sort of excitement.
'Yes, yes, yes!' she broke out. Had not that fact been bottled up in her for hours? His question cut the wire. A metaphor derived from champagne is in no sort inappropriate.
'You've got it? Where have you got it from?'
'Your principle is not to ask that, Mr. Fricker.'
'He must be very fond of you.'
'You're utterly wrong—and rather vulgar,' said Peggy Ryle.
'On the table with it!' laughed Fricker.
She threw the little bag across the table. 'Oh, and have you a cigarette, Mr. Fricker?' she implored.
Fricker gave a short laugh, and pushed a silver box across to her. She leant back in an extraordinary perfection of pleasure.