“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer adjured.
The first voice said sulkily: “Eleven hundred.”
And thus the bids rose to fifteen hundred, lifted bit by bit, as it were, by the magnetic force of the auctioneer’s personality. The man was now standing up, in domination. He bent down to the solicitor’s head; they whispered together.
“Gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “I am happy to inform you that the sale is now open.” His tone translated better than words his calm professional beatitude. Suddenly in a voice of wrath he hissed at the waiter: “Waiter, why don’t you serve these gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir; yes, sir.”
The auctioneer sat down and sipped at leisure, chatting with his clerk and the solicitor and the solicitor’s clerk.
When he rose it was as a conqueror. “Gentlemen, fifteen hundred is bid. Now, Mr. Critchlow.”
Mr. Critchlow shook his head. The auctioneer threw a courteous glance at Constance, who avoided it.
After many adjurations, he reluctantly raised his hammer, pretended to let it fall, and saved it several times.
And then Mr. Critchlow said: “And fifty.”