“If you please,” he said. “I know that the tea leaves are never allowed to remain in your tea-pot. I have no disquieting recollection of your tea-pot, Amber. And a cake—one of the hot ones, Miss West. They have no currants. I know that I shall never run the chance of coming in personal contact with a currant, change you your cakes never so often. I found myself confronted with a currant without a moment’s warning a few days ago at Lady March’s. I was saddened. And I thought I knew her tea-cakes so well. I felt for some days as if I had heard of a dear friend’s committing a forgery—as if I had come across you suddenly in the Park wearing mauve, instead of pink, Amber.”
“It does tinge one’s life with melancholy. Have you made any money to-day?” said Amber in one breath.
He drank his cup of tea and bit off a segment from the circle of the tea cake, then he looked earnestly at the tips of his fingers. Two of them were shiny.
“I’ve not done badly,” he said. “I made about eight pounds. It doesn’t seem much, does it? But that eight pounds is on the right side of the ledger, and that’s something.”
“It’s excellent,” said Lady Severn.
“I consider it most praiseworthy if you made it by fair dealing,” said Josephine.
“Oh, Joe, don’t discourage him so early in his career,” cried Amber.
Arthur Galmyn finished the tea in his cup and laid it thoughtfully before Amber to be refilled.
“It’s quite delicious,” he said. “Quite delicious. I wonder if anything is quite fair in the way of making money—except the tables at Monte Carlo: there’s no cheating done there.”
“That’s what I wonder too,” said Josephine.