“No, ma’am, not a share. I should deserve to be kicked out of the Stock Exchange, if I did.”
“Very well, sir—very well, sir,” said the lady, rising and tightening her lips. “That will do.”
“And now, as business is over, my dear madam, may I ask for the latest report concerning our friend Scarlett’s health?”
“Yes, sir, you may,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “It is very bad. His nerve is completely gone.”
“Ah, but I hope it will return,” said Saxby. “Patience, ma’am, patience. When stocks in a good thing, mind, I say a good thing, are at their lowest, they take a turn, and become often enough better than ever. And—er—may I ask how—how Miss Raleigh junior is?”
“No, sir; you may not,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Good-morning!”
“Phe-ew! What an old she-dragon it is!” said Mr Saxby to himself as the door closed upon Aunt Sophia’s angular form.
“I am right!” said Aunt Sophia to herself as she got into the hansom cab that she had waiting. “Here!—hi!” she cried, poking at the little trapdoor in the roof with her parasol. “Waterloo Station.”
Then, as the cab rattled along: “Arthur Prayle is a smooth-looking, smooth-tongued scoundrel; I know he is, and I’ve a good mind to let him have a few hundreds, so as to take off his mask. I won’t mistrust Saxby any more. He’s as honest as the day, and I’m glad I’ve put him on his guard. But he must be snubbed, very hard, and I must speak to Naomi. I do believe the hard, money-grubbing, fog-breathing creature thinks that he is in love!”