“I have the pleasure of knowing Mr. Pratt,” he announced. “We have, in fact, carried through a little business deal together. Not such a bad one, either, eh, Mr. Pratt? A few thousands each, or something of that sort, if I remember rightly. Even a few thousands are worth picking up for us city men, Marquis,” he added, turning to Lord Delchester.
The Marquis’ eyes glistened. His face seemed more hawklike than ever.
“I should be exceedingly grateful to any one who showed me how to make a few thousands,” he declared.
“Well, Mr. Pratt and I between us ought to find that easy enough,” the financier observed. “Treat the City right, pat and stroke her the right way, and she’ll yield you all you ask for. Buck up against her and she’d down a Rothschild.”
Dinner was a quaint meal. Mr. Dane Montague engaged his hostess’ attention with fragments of stilted conversation, the Marquis was almost entirely silent, and Lady Mary monopolised Jacob, except for a few moments when her mother alluded to the subject of the letter.
“Dear Mary is so conscientious,” she murmured. “She positively couldn’t rest until she had had it out with you.”
Jacob stammered some sort of answer, which was none the more coherent because of the kick under the table with which Lady Mary favoured him. Afterwards she continued to carry out the parental behest and again completely absorbed his attention. She wound up by lingering behind, as he held open the door at the conclusion of dinner, and whispering audaciously in his ear.
“We’re getting on too well, you know. You’d better be careful, or I shall be Lady Mary Pratt, after all!”
The Marquis moved his chair down to the side of Jacob’s, on the latter’s return to the table.
“I am glad to see you on such excellent terms with my daughter, Mr. Pratt,” he observed with a smile.