“That is most amiable of you,” said Baltazar, advancing to the gate and resting his arm on it with an easy suggestion of proprietorship. “You have run over, you have walked—and now you see.”
Before Baltazar’s ironical gaze the stranger’s eyelids fluttered in disconcertment.
“I fancied you might be lonely and might like to look in and have a game of bridge one of these days. My name’s Pillivant.”
“Pillivant,” said Baltazar. “I don’t much like it, but there are doubtless worse.”
“You may have heard it. Pillivant and Co., Timber Merchants. We’ve rather come to the front lately.”
“Your personal initiative, I should imagine,” said Baltazar.
“I don’t say as it isn’t,” replied Mr. Pillivant. “When whacking Government contracts are going, why not get ’em?”
“Why not? Why waste time in doing anything else, all day long, but getting ’em?”
Mr. Pillivant drew from his inner breast pocket a vast gold casket of a cigar-case, opened it and held it out towards his inhospitable host.
“Have a cigar? You needn’t be afraid. They stand me in two hundred and fifty shillings a hundred and I get ’em wholesale. No?” Baltazar declined politely. “You’re missing a good thing.” He bit off the end of the one he had chosen, lit it with a fat wax vesta extracted from a minor gold casket and drew a few puffs. “Funny sort of life you seem to be leading here, Mr. Baltazar. Dam’ funny!”