“Bless my heart!” ejaculated the stockbroker, hastily setting down the rose, for the act of smelling it had taken him down to a velvet lawn, sloping to the riverside; and upon that lawn he had seemed to see some one walking, wearing a similar rose; but it was not the lady who now entered, and of whom he had heard nothing since he warned her not to venture in the Cornish mine.
“Good-morning, Miss Raleigh,” he exclaimed, placing a chair. “I hardly expected to see you.”
“Why not?” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Where did you expect I should go?”
“I hope you are well, ma’am, and—Sir James and Lady Scarlett?”
“No; I’m not well; I’m worried,” said the lady. “Sir James and Lady Scarlett are both ill. Has—But never mind that now. Look here, Mr Saxby; you always give me very bad advice, and you seem determined not to let me get good interest for my money. Now, tell me this, sir. I have been receiving a great many circulars lately about different excellent investments; above all, several about gold mines in the north of India.”
“So I suppose, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby rubbing his hands softly.
“And I suppose you will say that they are not good; but here is one that I received yesterday which cannot fail to be right. I want some shares in that.”
“And you won’t have one, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby, who was far more autocratic in his own office than at a friend’s house.
“What! are they all sold?”
“Sold? Pooh! ma’am, hardly any. There are not many people lunatics enough to throw their money into an Indian gold mine.”