"What happened? Why! I showed the new 'client' out without wasting any more words," returned my visitor severely.
"Don't you see, Miss Lovelace? He'd made use of his introduction to try to 'rush' me into letting him have ready-money to the tune of fifty pounds! Do you suppose I should ever have seen them again? That," said the young bank manager impressively, "is the sort of man he is——" He broke off to demand: "Why do you laugh?"
It certainly was unjustifiable. But I couldn't help it.
I saw it all! The room at the bank where Million and I had interviewed the manager. The manager himself, with the formal manner that he "wears" like a new and not very comfortable suit of clothes, asking the visitor to sit down.
Then the Honourable Jim, in his gorgeously cut coat, with his daring yet wary blue eyes, smiling down at the other man (Mr. Brace is a couple of inches shorter). The Honourable Jim, calmly demanding fifty pounds "on account" (of what) in that insinuating, flattering, insidious, softly pitched Celtic voice of his ..."
"Common robbery. I see no difference between that and picking a man's pocket!" declared the young manager.
Perfectly true, of course. If you come to think of it, the younger son of Lord Ballyneck is no better than a sort of Twentieth-century Highwayman. There's really nothing to be said for him. Only why should Mr. Brace speak so rebukefully to me? It wasn't I who had tried to pick the pocket of his precious bank!
"And yet you don't see," persisted the manager, "why a fellow of that stamp should not be admitted to friendly terms with you!"
"With me? We're not talking about me at all!" I reminded this young man. And to drive this home I turned to the mirror and gave a touch or two to the white muslin butterfly of the cap that marked my place. "We're talking about my mistress. I am only Miss Million's maid——"
"Pshaw!"