"Besides being insufferably prosy," interpolated plain-spoken Nettie. "They are coming in. Milly, you and I can run away!" and they fluttered through the back-parlor door.
Mamma's face was overcast with genuine vexation. Her sigh, "How provoking!" reached the alcoved auditor. Then she advanced to meet a fat old lady, and a fatter, bald old gentleman.
"Is this really you, Mr. Bartol? It is an age since I have met you. I am happy to see you both. Pray be seated."
"Oh, good gracious!" said Robby, under his breath, sinking back into his corner, actually sick and trembling.
When he could listen and think again, papa had been sent for, and Mr. Bartol was apologizing for mingling business with a friendly visit. He wanted to buy a house owned by Mr. Wilcox, situated near his—Mr. Bartol's—home. The play of negotiation, of parry and thrust, was courteous, as befitted actors and scene, but Mr. Bartol's intention to buy cheap, and his host's desire to sell dear, were palpable to the unworldly eavesdropper.
"I am sorry you hold the property at so high a figure!" finally remarked Mr. Bartol, rising to take leave. "I must consult the friend who commissioned me to make inquiries, before I can say anything definite."
Mr. Wilcox was the impersonation of smiling indifference. "The truth is, my dear sir, I do not care to sell at all. The property is rising in value, and I may remove to that part of the city myself next year. I should lose on it were I to take less than the price I have named."
When the guests had gone, Mr. Wilcox turned laughingly to his wife:
"Well, my love, you have lost your walk, but your husband has made four thousand dollars—clear!"
"You think he will buy the place, then?"