“Well, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia, “have you sold those consols for me?”
“Yes, ma’am, as you insisted; but you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, when I tell you that—”
“There, there, there, man! I know what you are going to say; but it is my own money, and I shall do with it what I please, and—” Sniff, sniff, sniff. “Whatever is it smells so strong?”
“Strong, ma’am, strong?” said Mr Saxby, wiping his brow, for Aunt Sophia had a peculiar effect upon him, causing him to grow moist about the palms of his hands and dew to form upon his temples.
“Why, it’s that handkerchief, man: and you’ve been putting scent upon your hair!”
“Well, a little, ma’am, just a little,” said Saxby, with a smile that was more indicative of feebleness than strength. “I was coming into the country, you see, and, ahem!—sweets to the sweet.”
“Stuff!—How about that money.”
“There’s the cheque, ma’am,” said Mr Saxby, taking out his pocket-book; “but I give it to you with regret; and—let me beg of you, my dear madam, to be guided by me.”
“That will do, Saxby. I know what I am about; and now, I suppose, you have some eligible investment to propose?”
“Well, no, my dear madam; no. Things are very quiet. Money’s cheap as dirt.”