“Sorry, can’t let you have more than twenty-five shillings; it’s not heavy enough.”
“Could you make it twenty-seven and six?”
Impossible, to Rose, to disappoint that last humble attempt at a compromise. But Artie Millar never seemed to find any difficulty in disassociating sentiment from business.
“Can’t be done. Twenty-five is all I can manage.”
“Very well, let’s have it.”
The client always succumbed, and Artie Millar always concluded by calling out impassively:
“Felix, make out this ticket.”
He seldom asked whether or no the penny for the ticket were forthcoming. His experienced eye told him, apparently, whether it would be produced, or, without words, must be deducted from the money handed over the counter in exchange for the trinket.
Rose felt a little surprised sometimes, recalling her early affair with Millar. Her view of him was now singularly devoid of glamour, and she wondered at the complete absence of the magnetic attraction that each had once had for the other.
“It was youth, I suppose,” she told herself rather wistfully.