"You'll get along famously with Miss Dolores, I'm sure," said Lord James. "She's quite a charming girl,—vivacious and all that, you know. She's taken quite a fancy to you. The mother is one of those silly climbers who never look below the surface. You have twice my moral stamina, but just because I happen to have a title and some polish—"
"Don't try to gloze it over," cut in Blake. "Let's have it straight.
You're a thoroughbred. I'm a broncho."
"Mistaken metaphor," rejoined his friend. "I'm a well-bred nonentity.
You're a diamond in the rough. When once you've been cut and polished—"
"Then the flaws will show up in great shape," gibed Blake.
"Never think it, old man! There is only one flaw, and that will disappear with the one cutting required to bring the stone to the best possible shape."
"Stow it!" ordered Blake. The rattling of the doorknob drew his gaze about. "Here's Grif, back at last. He's been to chin with Papa Leslie." He squinted aggressively at the older engineer, who entered with his usual air of seeming absorption in the performance of his most trivial actions. "Hello, you Injin! Gone into partnership with H. V.? You've been there all morning."
"Other way 'round, if anything," answered Griffith. He nodded cordially in response to the greeting of Lord James, and began rummaging in his pockets as he came over to the desk. "Now, where's that letter? Hey?—Oh, here it is." He drew out a long envelope, and started to open it in a precise, deliberate manner.
"So he fired you, eh?" rallied Blake.
"In a way," said Griffith, peering at the paper in his hand. "It seems he's unloaded the Zariba project onto the Coville Company."
"Thought it couldn't be put through, eh?" said Blake. "Bet he didn't let it go for nothing, though."