They couldn’t get rid of Marcus! He stood there, looking like a strapped mummy in his tight overcoat, pouring out compliments and trade-gossip alternately.
“Poor young Schornstein. He’s been killed, you know. Sam Elkins gave his car to the Red Cross. I’m an old man, worse luck. Still, I’m trying to do my bit. And Mrs. Bramson, she’s running a canteen.
“Well, I mustn’t be keeping you like this,” he said at last. “We’re spending Christmas at this hotel. So if you’re passing again, drop in and take a drink with us. I’d like to have a little private talk with you, Mr. Jameson,” he added, as he wrenched off his hat and passed in through the glass doors.
“Quaint old bird, Marcus,” announced Peter, still smarting under the compliments. “Did you see what he was driving at?”
“No.” Patricia swung down the crowded parade. “I only thought of his clothes. How can he afford to stay at the ‘Royal York?’ ”
“Marcus must be worth at least a quarter of a million. He’s one of those chaps who simply can’t help making money. And he spends nothing. They live in an eighty-pound villa at Maida Vale, keep two servants, and take a holiday like this three times a year.”
They threaded their way out of the crowd; made towards Hove. It was a mild, misty afternoon: sun hanging low and scarlet over a dun sea.
“And what was he driving at?” she asked.
“Nirvana.”
“But you’re not going to sell it, Peter?” She looked round at him; but his eyes avoided her.