“No; I am only a banker,” replied Turner, with his chin sinking lower on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavy lids.
The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemed to remind the client of her business.
“Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much money I have?” she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornful reproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of a banking business.
“Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous,” replied Turner, with a promptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book on the table before him because he had need of neither.
“I feel sure I must have more than that,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with some spirit. “I quite thought I had.”
But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at the date. His attitude dimly suggested—quite in a nice way—that the chair upon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by the garments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the same error.
“Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all. Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you came to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon.”
“When we were eating a sweetbread aux champignons. I remember perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris.”
And John Turner shook his head sadly. “Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow morning—in notes?”
“I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finished the sweetbread and had gone on to a crême renversée—very good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now. One cannot even get one’s meals properly served. Cook’s head is full of politics, I suppose.”