"We must wait a minute or two for Sir Charles," said our hostess. "Everyone else is here," and she beamed around the room.
The various mauvais quart d'heure dialogues that this speech had interrupted were resumed, most of them switching on to the question of punctuality. And then a cab was heard to stop outside and after a minute or so, presumably spent in financial transactions, the bell rang and the knocker knocked.
"That's Sir Charles," said our hostess; "there he is;" and a few moments later the guest we all awaited so fervently was in the room, full of apologies.
"Never mind why you're late," said our hostess, "I'm sure you couldn't help it. Now we'll eat," and once again a dozen Londoners fell into ark-approaching formation and moved towards repletion.
The party was familiar enough, after certain solvents of speech had been applied, for conversation to become general; and during the entrée we were all listening to Sir Charles telling the famous story of the eminent numismatist who, visiting the British Museum, was taken for a thief. By way of making the narration the more vivid he felt in his pocket for a coin with which to illustrate the dramatic crisis, when his expression became suddenly alarmed and fixed.
"Good heavens!" he said, fumbling nervously all over his clothes, "I've given it to the cabman. Of all the infernal idiocy! I knew I should. I had a presentiment that I should get it muddled up with my other money and give it away."
"What was it?" he was asked.
"Was it something very valuable?"
"Was it a rare coin?"
Murmurs of sympathy made a low accompaniment.