“And the price?”
“The price is that you’re to be a good true friend to Claire Denville there, as long as you live, and,”—a hearty smack on Cora’s Juno-like red lips—“there’s the receipt, my dear.”
“But, Mrs Barclay—”
“Not another word, my dear,” cried the plump lady. “There’s the little case, and—there!” she continued, taking up a pen and writing, as she muttered, “Half-hoop oriental pearl ring: Countess of Dinster. S-o-l-d. There.”
She looked up, smiling with satisfaction, and busily opened another case.
“But, really, Mrs Barclay,” began Cora, “such an expensive ring.”
“Why, bless your heart, my dear, you don’t think I look upon such a thing as that as expensive. Why, I’ve only to say to my Jo-si-ah I want a set of diamonds, and if they were worth a couple of thousand pounds he’d give ’em to me directly. There, I won’t hear no more. These are nice, ain’t they, my dears? Emeralds—real.”
She held up a glittering green suite.
“Look at the flaws in them. Shows how good they are. Look at these sapphires and diamonds mixed, too. They’re worth a good thousand, they are.”
She spread out the beautiful stones, and Cora’s eyes glistened with pleasure as case after case was opened, for it was a feast for her that she thoroughly enjoyed, while Claire sat looking on listless and sad till the task was nearly done.