The chief part in this scene was undoubtedly Mr. Christian's, although he had hitherto been comparatively silent; but he occupied two chairs with so much grace, throwing his right leg over the seat of the second, and resting his right hand on the back; he held his cigar and displayed a splendid seal-ring with such becoming nonchalance, and had his gray hair arranged with so much taste, that experienced eyes would at once have seen even the great Scales himself to be but a secondary character.
"Why," said Mr. Crowder, an old respectable tenant, though much in arrear as to his rent, who condescended frequently to drink in the steward's room for the sake of the conversation; "why, I suppose they get money so fast in the East—it's wonderful. Why," he went on, with a hesitating look toward Mr. Scales, "this Transome p'r'aps got a matter of a hundred thousand."
"A hundred thousand, my dear sir! fiddle-stick's end of a hundred thousand," said Mr. Scales, with a contempt very painful to be borne by a modest man.
"Well," said Mr. Crowder, giving way under torture, as the all-knowing butler puffed and stared at him, "perhaps not so much as that."
"Not so much, sir! I tell you that a hundred thousand pounds is a bagatelle."
"Well, I know it's a big sum," said Mr. Crowder, deprecatingly.
Here there was a general laugh. All the other intellects present were more cultivated than Mr. Crowder's.
"Bagatelle is the French for trifle, my friend," said Mr. Christian. "Don't talk over people's heads so, Scales. I shall have hard work to understand you myself soon."
"Come, that's a good one," said the head-gardener, who was a ready admirer; "I should like to hear the thing you don't understand, Christian."
"He's a first-rate hand at sneering," said Mr. Scales, rather nettled.