“Thank you sir. How can I thank you? I seem to remember”—he passed his hand over his forehead—“I seem to remember some one telling me that you were born,—though I assure you it is impossible for us in England to distinguish it,—in one of our Britains Overseas. Sir, an action such as that which you have just done—a good deed if I may call it so,” he went on more loudly, seizing Scipio’s right hand between both of his, “is a cement of Empire! I will never forget it, never! Will you excuse me a moment sir, while I speak to Lady Repton?”
With his best and most winning smile Sir Charles asked this question of Scipio, who for the tenth or eleventh time that evening, bowed with a kink in the fourteenth vertebra.
He drew his wife into the hall.
“I suppose he wants payment on the spot, doesn’t he, Maria? These specialists usually do.”
“Yes dear,” said Lady Repton, her old awe returning with his changed mood. “Yes dear, I’m afraid he does ... he ... in fact, I’m afraid I promised it him.”
“How much?” said Sir Charles sternly.
“Well dear, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll pay.”
“But it does matter. It matters a great deal, Maria. It all comes out of my pocket in the long run. How much did he stipulate for?”
“A hundred pounds,” said Lady Repton.
“Oh come,” said Sir Charles, greatly relieved. “A hundred! That’s a good lot. How often will he come for that?”