"Did you ever see such wretched little starveling girls as he puts into the bazaar at Christmas?"
"It's a disgrace to the town, importing such waifs and strays."
"They tell me he gets 'em out of a place in Whitechapel—and they're in charge of a couple of detectives all the time."
"Yes, you bet. Two upon ten, or the poor little beggars would prig his gimcracks as fast as he put them out."
"I don't vouch for it—but I believe it myself: they had three cases of pocket-picking in an hour. And it was one of his shop-girls who done it."
"That's a nice way of doing business! 'Step this way, miss, and look at our twopenny 'a'penny toys'—and pick the customer's pocket as you are serving her."
While they talked so cheerily and pleasantly Mrs. Thompson several times glanced down the table at her youngest manager. She need not have dreaded the meeting. He had made it quite easy for her. He had proved that he possessed the instincts of a true gentleman—not a make-believe gentleman; he had displayed consideration, tact, good breeding; and by his ready wit he had come to her aid and dissipated the dullness of her guests. She sat smiling and nodding in the midst of their lively chatter, and looked at Mr. Marsden's strong, clear-cut profile. It seemed to her statuesque, noble, magnificent; and it did not once change into a full face during all the time she watched it.
Now the guests had eaten their dessert, and the hired waiters had gone from the room. The moment had come for the toast.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Prentice, "fill your glasses and drink a health. I give you two people rolled into one—that is, the best Man of business in Mallingbridge and Mrs. Thompson.... Mrs. Thompson!"