"Clifford is a very shrewd man of business," remarked Larssen, drinking his third cognac at Ciro's at the end of a dinner which was a masterpiece even for Monte Carlo, where dining is taken au grand sérieux. He did not sip cognac, but took it neat in liqueur glassfuls at a time. There was a clean-cut forcefulness even in his drinking, typical of the human dynamo of will-power within.
Sir Francis puffed out a cloud of cigar-smoke with an air of reflected glory. He had helped to capture Matheson as a son-in-law, and a compliment of this kind was therefore an indirect compliment to himself.
The capture of Matheson was, in fact, the most notable achievement of his career. Beyond that, he had done little but ornament the Boards of companies with his name; manage his estate (through an agent) with a mixture of cross conservatism and despotic benevolence; and shoot, hunt and fish with impeccable "good form." He was typical of that very large class of leisured landowner in whose creed good form is next above godliness.
"Yes, Clifford has his head screwed on right," he said.
"Before he left for Canada," continued Larssen, "he managed to gouge me for a tidy extra in shares for you and for Mrs Matheson."
Olive had been markedly listless, heavy-eyed and abstracted during the course of the dinner, a point which Larssen had noted with some puzzlement. His mind had worked over the reasons for it without arriving at any definite conclusion. But now, at this unexpected announcement, her eyes lighted up greedily.
"For me!" she exclaimed. "That's more than I expected from Clifford."
The shipowner reached to take out some papers from his breast-pocket, then stopped. "I was forgetting. I oughtn't to be talking shop over the dinner-table."
Sir Francis made an inarticulate noise which was a kind of tribute to the fetish of good form. He wanted to hear more, but did not want to ask to hear more.
"Please go on," said Olive. "Talk business now just as much as you like. Unless, of course, you'd rather not discuss details while I'm here."