Furneaux, looking very meek and mild, entered an apartment of the carpet-bag upholstery period. A set of six exceedingly good and rare sporting prints caught his eye.
“Good day,” he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a boiled egg. “You’re feeling better, I’m glad to see.”
Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as to his health demands a certain note of civility in return.
“Yes,” he said. “Sit down. Will you join me?”
“I’ll have a cup of tea, with pleasure,” said Furneaux.
“Right-o! Just touch that bell, will you?”
The other obeyed, and took a closer look at one of the prints. Yes, the date was right, 1841, and the stippling admirable.
“Nice lot of pictures, those,” he said cheerfully, when the frightened maid, much to her relief, had been told to bring another cup and a fresh supply of toast.
“Are they?” Elkin had taken them and some kitchen furniture for a bad debt.
“Yes. Will you sell them?”