“I thought you had. We got a cable from Beckmanns this morning. Nothing definite in it: but putting two and two together, you know. . . .”
They looked at each other, and laughed. The Beresfords, both bachelors, were extremely well off; their transactions with the Beckmann factory of no great importance. Still, by his next remark Peter knew that Maurice was hit, in his business-vanity if not in his pocket.
“What I like about you, Peter,” he said, screwing the monocle back into his eye, “is that although you are every bit as unscrupulous as the rest of us, you manage to keep up a pose of old-fashioned respectability, combined with modern straightforwardness, which I, for one, find it impossible to adopt. How many cases did you have to guarantee Beckmanns?”
“Oh quite a lot,” parried Peter.
“And what is going to happen about my pending orders? Will they be shipped, or not?”
This being the crux of the conversation, Peter changed the subject; began talking about shade-grown wrappers, the new schedule of Trust prices and other mysteries unintelligible to the profane.
“It will be very unfair if they aren’t,” interrupted Beresford.
“I’ll have to talk it over with Simpson.”
“Great genius—Simpson,” said Beresford sarcastically.
“And, either way, you’ll have to pay us a profit on them. . . .”