‘Aha, cher Duc!’ cried the Baron with brazen-voiced, brutal bonhomie: ‘go to de pilliard room and vait.’
‘Can’t you spare a moment?’
‘Ne voyez-vous pas?’ The bonhomie passed to imperial fierceness. ‘I am peezy!’
‘Well?’ he said, as Mr. Cato still sat plunged in thought. ‘For you it is leetle question—for de Brince, leetle question: it is me or somebody else. Fife hunderd tousand pount, effery year.’
Mr. Cato still pondered. He thought he saw his duty clearing before him.
‘Well? De Duke vaits; I vait. You impoverish de world: you widdraw me from circulation. Is it Yes?’
‘No!’ said Mr. Cato, pushing back his chair. ‘It is No.’
‘Ah?... Who will manage de mines?’
‘The Prince will manage the mines. I will manage the mines.’
‘Goot! You hear, Max? Dis shendlemann will manage de mines.’