“I do hope, Mrs. Bell, that you'll back me up,” she said. “You have the better business head I think, in the financial line.”
“She has,” Diantha admitted. “She's ten times as good as I am at that; but she's no more willing to carry obligation than I am, Mrs. Weatherstone.”
“Obligation is one thing—investment is another,” said her guest. “I live on my money—that is, on other people's work. I am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. So—take it or leave it—I've brought you an offer.”
She then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. This being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model.
“I had one made in Paris,” she explained, “and the rest copied here to save paying duty. Lift it!”
They lifted it in amazement—it was so light.
“Aluminum,” she said, proudly, “Silver plated—new process! And bamboo at the corners you see. All lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments—see?”
She pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five.
“It will hold food for five—the average family, you know. For larger orders you'll have to send more. I had to make some estimate.”
“What lovely dishes!” said Diantha.