“What does he mean, Tom?” demanded Marjorie quickly. “Have you inherited money?”
“No. Shut up, Joe.”
“Well, with your luck anything might happen,” protested Joe. “If you don’t resign they may make you a major-general.”
“Bosh!” Tom looked as provoked as he felt. “Let me explain Joe’s nonsense. When in Brussels two years ago, I attended the Vieux Marché where the townspeople and peasants bring old junk on Sundays to be sold for what it will bring, and I picked up an old coin for five centimes. The other day I heard Admiral Lawrence discussing numismatology in the club, and it occurred to me to show my coin to an antique dealer. Joe went with me yesterday, and I’m blessed if the dealer didn’t tell me the coin was worth between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Oh, how romantic!” ejaculated Pauline, and Janet looked her interest.
“Let’s see the coin, Tom,” suggested Joe, “or have you sold it?”
“No, the dealer only gave me the address of a New York coin collector whom he thought would buy it. If you really care to see the coin,” looking anxiously at Janet, who nodded her head vigorously. “Just a moment, I’ll run upstairs and get it.”
Pauline promptly opened a lively conversation with Barnard across the table, and Duncan was just thinking of changing his seat when Tom rejoined them carrying a small pasteboard box.
“There, isn’t that an ugly thing to be worth all that gold,” he said, placing the coin in Janet’s hand, and the others crowded about to get a better look at it.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” admitted Janet, handing it back to Tom. “Personally I’d rather buy....”