“Then—then, why are you here? got an appointment?”
“Look here, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, laughing, “as we are to be such near neighbours, and you evidently would like me to make a clean breast of it, here it all is:—I am a mining engineer; a bit of a chemist; I have no appointment; and I have come down to get one.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place, young man.”
“So Mr Penwynn told me.”
“Oh, you’ve been there, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Seen his daughter?”
“No, nor do I want to see her,” said Geoffrey, throwing the end of his cheroot out of the window. “I’ll take another of those cheroots, sir. They’re strong and full-flavoured; I like them. So you think I’ve come to the wrong place, do you?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, passing the blackest and strongest cheroot in his case. “Of course I do. The mining is all going to the dogs. The companies are one-half of them bankrupt, and the other half pay no dividends. The only people who make money are a set of scoundrelly adventurers who prospect for tin, and when they have found what they call a likely spot—”
Here there was a pause, while the old gentleman also lit a fresh cheroot.