Mr. Bramble grew rosy. "Blooming rubbish," he snorted, still a trifle apprehensive.
The clock-maker turned again to de Bosky. "Come upstairs at once. I shall myself fry eggs for you, and bacon,—nice and crisp,—and my coffee is not the worst in the world, my friend. His is abominable. And toast, hot and buttery,—ah, I am not surprised that your mouth waters!"
"It isn't my mouth that is watering," said de Bosky, wiping his eyes.
"Any fool could see that," said Mr. Bramble, scowling at the maladroit Mirabeau.
It was two o'clock when Prince Waldemar de Bosky took his departure from the hospitable home of the two old men, and, well-fortified in body as well as in spirit, moved upon the stronghold of Mrs. Moses Jacobs.
The chatelaine of "The Royal Exchange. M. Jacobs, Proprietor," received him with surprising cordiality.
"Well, well!" she called out cheerily as he approached the "desk." "I thought you'd never get here. I been waitin' since nine o'clock."
Her dark, heavy face bore signs of a struggle to overcome the set, implacable expression that avarice and suspicion had stamped upon it in the course of a long and resolute abstinence from what we are prone to call the milk of human kindness. She was actually trying to beam as she leaned across the gem-laden showcase and extended her coarse, unlovely hand to the visitor.
"I am sorry," said he, shaking hands with her. "I have been extremely busy. Besides, on a hot day like this, I could get along very nicely without a fur coat, Mrs. Jacobs."
"Sure!" said she. "It sure is hot today. You ought to thank God you ain't as fat as I am. It's awful on fat people. Well, wasn't you surprised?"