He began to lay out the cards in neat little packs.
"Bulbs are coming through nicely. I was hoping to spend a day or two in the garden but I'm afraid not—'fraid it won't be possible."
Cassis put his hands behind his back.
"This business," he said.
"Yes."
Lord Almont Frayne, a rather resplendant young man of thirty, came into the room with all the bounce of youth. His chin shone from a ten minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint and the crease in his trousers was razor edged.
"Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology.
"Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse."
From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an ass—but no. Under the ecstatic exterior of twentieth century modern man-about-townism there existed in the composition of Lord Almont many of the shrewd qualities that had made his father one of the richest bankers in England. People in the know would assure you it was not only luck that had kept the parental millions secure and had even increased them after the old gentleman's decease. Lord Almont had a sense of the market and his intelligence was not entirely devoted to matters sartorial.
"Anybody have anything? No. Too early? Infernally hot in here. Mind if we have a window up?"
Cassis was only just in time to lodge an objection.