“Who did you say that tall girl was?” said June, returning mothlike to the flame, as she helped the Sawney very substantially to his favourite dish.
“Miss Babraham!”
“And who did you say her father was?”
“Sir Arthur Babraham!”
“And what might he do for a living?”
This was not ignorance. It was mere facetiousness. She knew quite well that no Sir Arthur Babraham since first invented by that ridiculous monarch, King James, had ever done anything for a living. But it was good to feel how such a “break” would have hurt Miss Preece.
“He’s one of the richest men in England,” said William, dipping his spoon into his tapioca with an impersonality which approached the sublime.
June knew that. There was the daughter of Sir Arthur Babraham to prove it.
“One of Uncle Si’s best customers, I suppose?”
“Doesn’t often come here. But he has wonderful taste.”