“It is an enormous opportunity,” he said—“timber lands in Mexico, you know. If you had spent your life in England, you would realize that timber has become a desperate necessity, and that the difficulties which exist in the way of supplying the demand are almost insuperable. These forests are virtually boundless, and the company which controls them—”
“That’s a good spiel!” broke in Tembarom.
It sounded like the crudely artless interruption of a person whose perceptions left much to be desired.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he replied rather stiffly.
“There was a fellow I knew in New York who used to sell type-writers, and he had a thing to say he used to reel off when any one looked like a customer. He used to call it his ’spiel.’”
Palliser’s quick glance at him asked questions, and his stiffness did not relax itself.
“Is this New York chaff?” he inquired coldly.
“No,” Tembarom said. “You’re not doing it for ten per. He was.”
“No, not exactly,” said Palliser. “Neither would you be doing it for ten per if you went into it.” His voice changed. He became slightly haughty. “Perhaps it was a mistake on my part to think you might care to connect yourself with it. You have not, of course, been in the position to comprehend such matters.”
But the expression of Tembarom’s face did not change. He only gave a half-awkward sort of laugh.