“Yes,” he said.
“Well,” went on Charlbury slowly, “if he takes up Rotors....”
“How do you mean, ‘takes up Rotors’?” said young Terrard irritably. “It’s not worth our while to make him lose a little packet over what all the world knows. Rotors have seen their best. Bailey tells me he believes Trefusis is selling privately.”
“What I mean,” began Mr. Charlbury.
“What you mean,” broke in Terrard pettishly, “is that when the Bill is through and the damn-fool public come to hear of the Public Services Contract Rotors will go to 5½.... Well, they won’t. They’re over-priced now. All that’s discounted. They were 4¾-⅞, offered by whoever it was that was selling them the last thing yesterday, and they won’t fetch that again, so there. After all,” he added, a little ashamed of himself for showing any heat over so small a matter, “that’s good enough in all conscience! They were 2s. 6d. before Trefusis and his gang came in. Thirty-five pounds odd for your quid isn’t bad, even for Trefusis, these days: Harry Holt’s wife made forty odd thousand, and Holt left the Government, took a directorship in it.”
Mr. Charlbury heard him out, his contempt increasing, but his awe at the mundane connections remaining fixed. “Nothing to do with that, Charlie,” he snapped. “Listen to me. If the Trefusis crowd think they’ve got Petre up against them ... eh?”
Charlie Terrard opened his mouth foolishly, like a man recovering from gas. “Up against ’em?” he repeated mechanically.
“Yes,” said Mr. Charlbury, beginning to show a little temper this time, “up against them.”
“But he isn’t,” said Charlie Terrard simply. “Petre isn’t up against them.”
“Of course he isn’t, idiot!” answered his partner with fine equality. “Not yet. But you can make him, can’t you?”