“What’s his name?” asked Brett. “Veuve Cliquot?”
“No,” said the count. “Mumms. He’s a baron.”
“Isn’t it wonderful,” said Brett. “We all have titles. Why haven’t you a title, Jake?”
“I assure you, sir,” the count put his hand on my arm. “It never does a man any good. Most of the time it costs you money.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s damned useful sometimes,” Brett said.
“I’ve never known it to do me any good.”
“You haven’t used it properly. I’ve had hell’s own amount of credit on mine.”
“Do sit down, count,” I said. “Let me take that stick.”
The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. “I say, Jake, I don’t want to ruin your rugs. Can’t you give a chap an ash-tray?”
I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. “Put two bottles in it, Henry,” the count called.