“Yes.” I was on the borderland of indignation. I felt foolish—checkmated.
“You had no difficulty in finding the place.”
“I can always find my friend’s house, Mr. Price.”
“You were dull enough about it on the piazza when we were speaking about Mr. Finche. What a glorious spot you have here! It reminds me of Devonshire. Ah! you American millionaires know how to live.”
“We try to get value out of the world.”
“And you succeed. Your good health, Mr. Finche. Ah!” smacking his lips, “that is wine. What a superb thing to sit beneath one’s vine or fig-tree, drink such nectar as this, and to be able to—pay for it!” with a light laugh.
“You are from London, sir, my friend Crosse tells me.”
I could have flung the contents of my glass into Finche’s face. Price would perhaps think I had been singing his praises.
“Yes, I hail from that little village on the Thames.”
“A lawyer?”