“Well, if it hasn’t so shown”—and Lord Theign stared as if mystified—“what in the world’s the meaning of this preposterous racket?”
“The racket is largely,” his young friend explained, “the vociferation of the people who contradict each other about it.”
On which their hostess sought to enliven the gravity of the question. “Some—yes—shouting on the housetops that’s a Mantovano of the Mantovanos, and others shrieking back at them that they’re donkeys if not criminals.”
“He may take it for whatever he likes,” said Lord Theign, heedless of these contributions, “he may father it on Michael Angelo himself if he’ll but clear out with it and let me alone!”
“What he’d like to take it for,” Lord John at this point saw his way to remark, “is something in the nature of a Hundred Thousand.”
“A Hundred Thousand?” cried his astonished friend.
“Quite, I dare say, a Hundred Thousand”—the young man enjoyed clearly handling even by the lips so round a sum.
Lady Sandgate disclaimed however with agility any appearance of having gaped. “Why, haven’t you yet realised, Theign, that those are the American figures?”
His lordship looked at her fixedly and then did the same by Lord John, after which he waited a little. “I’ve nothing to do with the American figures—which seem to me, if you press me, you know, quite intolerably vulgar.”
“Well, I’d be as vulgar as anybody for a Hundred Thousand!” Lady Sandgate hastened to proclaim.