“For a person of your low extraction.”
“Well, I may be queer, but he is certainly queerer. Don’t you think so, now you know him?”
Paul Muniment looked at his young friend a moment. “Do you want to know what he is? He’s a tout.”
“A tout? What do you mean?”
“Well, a cat’s-paw, if you like better.”
Hyacinth stared. “For whom, pray?”
“Or a fisherman, if you like better still. I give you your choice of comparisons. I made them up as we came along in the hansom. He throws his nets and hauls in the little fishes—the pretty little shining, wriggling fishes. They are all for her; she swallows ’em down.”
“For her? Do you mean the Princess?”
“Who else should I mean? Take care, my tadpole!”
“Why should I take care? The other day you told me not to.”