‘To de English room.’
They flew through a monstrous hall, with three footmen after them; fountains, palms, mosaics, tiles, pillars, galleries, lights; a card-table, dwarfed by the vastness; card-players, lounging men, thin contemptuous women smoking cigarettes. As they bowled rapidly by, the Baron waved flickering red fingers:
‘My exguses laties. Come along Max: beesness!’
A young Jew arose from the table, threw down his cards, made apologies, and followed quickly.
In the English room the Baron cast rapid gestures at the pictures on the walls:
‘Reynolds, Cainsborough, Dicksee, Constable, Leader, Freeth. Come along, Max. Bring champagne,’ he said to the footmen.
‘Not for me, thank you,’ said Mr. Cato.
‘Goot! I will drink it mysailfe.’
They sat in a blaze of electric light, velvet, gold, Venetian glasses; everything exhaled a fat smell of luxury. This was the stunning atmosphere in which the Baron preferred to make his ‘broposition.’ Papers flitted about the table; champagne and diamond rings flickered before Mr. Cato’s eyes.
The Baron planned an amalgamation, a monopoly; harmony and understanding; big handling and cheap production; the sales regulated; the market chosen; the rate of exchange manipulated. A mass of companies, with different names, different directorates, even different supposititious localities.