‘O no; I did not think that, Wrentham; but as the land is very much on the outskirts of the city, and has been for a long time in the market, I did not expect that there would be much delay in coming to terms about it.’
‘Ah! but you forget that it is within easy distance of an existing railway station, and close by the site of one which will be in working order before your houses can be built.’
‘Exactly. That is why I chose the spot.’
‘Just so; and you can have it; but the fellows know its full value, and mean to have it. Look at that.’
He handed him a paper containing the statement of the terms on which the land in question was to be sold. Philip read it carefully, frowned, and tossed it back to his agent.
‘Ridiculous!’ he exclaimed. ‘They must have thought you were acting for the government or a railway company. I believe it is considered legitimate to fleece them. Half the money is what I will give, and no more.’
When a clever man thinks he has performed a particularly clever trick, and finds that, by some instinct of self-preservation, the person to be tricked upsets all his calculations, whilst there still remains a chance of persuading him that he is making a mistake, there comes over the clever person a peculiar change. It is like a sudden lull in the wind: he shows neither surprise nor regret on his own part, but a certain respectful pity for the blindness of the other in not seeing the advantage offered him. So with Wrentham at this moment. He left the paper lying on the table, as if it had no further interest for him, and took out his cigar-case.
‘You don’t mind a cigar, I suppose?... Have one?’
‘Thank you. Here is some sherry: help yourself.’
Wrentham helped himself, lit his cigar, and sank back on an easy-chair, like a man whose day’s work is done, and who feels that he has earned the right to rest comfortably.