"That's true," cried Cousin Charles, unable to resist the expression of his admiration. "To think that we should stand in the presence of millions!"
"And so you've come, all of you," said John of the thirteen millions, "to see your cousin again. Out of love and affection?"
"Some of us," said Cousin Charles. "I fear that others," he cast one eye on the bankrupt and one on the pew-opener, "have come to see what they can get. Humanity is mixed, Mr. Haveril. You must have learned that already. Mixed."
"Thank ye, sir. I have learned that lesson."
"To see our cousin Alice once more, to desire, Mr. Haveril, to see you—to gaze upon you—is with some of us, laudable, sir—laudable."
"Quite so, sir. Highly laudable."
"As for me," said the bankrupt, abashed, "I did hope to find Cousin Alice alone."
"And if Mr. Charles Pennefather," said the pew-opener, "means that he wants nothing for himself, let him go, now that he has seen his Cousin Alice! Let him go on down-trodding them poor girls in his place of business."
At this point, when it seemed likely that the family would take sides, the waiter appeared, bearing in his arms—I use the word with intention—a Jeroboam of champagne. He was followed by two boys, pages, bearing trays; and on the trays were glasses.