“Yes,” said Mr Elbraham, strutting pompously up and down the room. “Lovely girl that Miss Clotilde!”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Arthur Litton; “she is handsome, certainly.”
“Humph! I should think she is, sir.”
“But I’ve seen many finer women,” continued Litton. “Not my style of girl at all.”
“Should think not, indeed,” said Elbraham hotly. “Bah, sir! stuff, sir! rubbish, sir! What do you know about handsome women?”
“Well, certainly,” said Litton humbly, and with a smile, as the financier walked away from him down the room—a smile which was replaced by a look as serious as that of the proverbial judge, when the great man turned; “I suppose my opinion is not worth much.”
“I should think not, indeed. I tell you she is magnificent.”
“Oh, nonsense, my dear sir,” said Litton warmly; “handsome if you like, but magnificent—no! You know dozens of finer women.”
“Maybe, maybe,” said the financier.
Litton paused for a few moments, tapping his teeth as if undecided, till his chief paused and looked at him curiously.