It was now, as the breakfast party separated, some to enter the conservatory, others to stroll round the garden, that Aunt Sophia met Mr Saxby’s eye, and nodding towards the drawing-room, said shortly: “Go in there!—Naomi, you can come too.”
Mr Saxby heard the first part of Aunt Sophia’s speech as if it were an adverse sentence, the latter part as if it were a reprieve; and after drawing back, to allow the ladies to pass, he found that he was expected to go first, and did so, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and as if Naomi must be criticising his back—a very unpleasant feeling, by the way, to a sensitive man, especially if he be one who is exceedingly particular about his personal appearance, and wonders whether his coat fits, and the aforesaid back has been properly brushed.
Naomi noted Mr Saxby’s uneasiness, and she also became aware of the fact that Arthur Prayle strolled slowly off into the conservatory, where he became deeply interested in the flowers, taking off a dead leaf here and there, and picking up fallen petals, accidentally getting near the open window the while.
“Now, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia sharply, “you have brought me down those shares?”
“Well, no, Miss Raleigh,” he said, business-like now at once. “I did not buy them because—”
“You did not buy them?”
“No, ma’am. You see, shares of that kind—”
“Pay twelve and fifteen per cent, and I only get a pitiful three.”
“Every year, ma’am, regularly. Shares like those you want me to buy generally promise fifteen, pay at the rate of ten on the first half-year—”
“Well, ten per cent, then,” cried Aunt Sophia.