"Of course I see it." He sat silent a moment regarding his vision; smooth-browed, close-lipped, a purified and transmuted Tanqueray.
"What do you expect," he said presently, "to happen?"
"I expect what always has happened, and worse."
"So do I. I said in the beginning that he hadn't a chance. There isn't a place for him anywhere in his own generation. He might just as well go on the Stock Exchange and try to float a company by singing to the brokers. It's a generation of brokers."
"Beasts!"
"Aunt's lodger is a broker," said Rose. "Old furniture—real—and pictures is 'is line."
"Aunt's lodger, I assure you, will be thoroughly well damned if he takes any stock in Owen."
"'E 'asn't seen Mr. Prothero," said Rose, "and you'll frighten Minny if you use such language."
Tanqueray ignored the interruption. "Owen, you see, is dangerous. He regards the entire Stock Exchange as a bankrupt concern. The Stock Exchange resents the imputation and makes things dangerous for Owen. If a man will insist on belonging to all the centuries that have been, and all the centuries that will be, he's bound to have a bad time in his own. You can't have it both ways."
"I know. He knows it. We'd rather have it this way. I oughtn't to talk as if he minded, as if it could touch him where he is. It's me it hurts, not him."