Jimmie looked at her ruefully.
“I'm afraid I forgot the wretched agreement. I went in and twirled my moustache fiercely, and said 'Mr. Hyam, I want my money.'”
Aline laughed. “And you took him by the throat. I know. Oh, you foolish person!”
“Well, he asked me if twenty-five would be enough—and it's a lot of money, you know, dear—and I thought if I did n't say 'yes,' he would n't give me anything. In business affairs one has to be diplomatic.”
“I'll have to take Hyam in hand myself,” said Aline, decisively. “Well, he'll have to pay up some day. Then there's Blathwayt & Co.,—and Tilney—that's quite right—but where did you get all that gold from, Jimmie?”
“Oh, that was somebody else,” he said vaguely. Then turning to the waitress, who had sauntered up to open the bottle of Bass, he pointed at Aline's lunch.
“Do you mind taking away that eccentric pie-thing and bringing the most nutritious dish you have in the establishment?”
“But, Jimmie, this is a Bath bun. It's delicious,” protested Aline.
“My dear child, growing girls cannot be fed like bears on buns. Ah, here,” he said to the waitress who showed him the little wooden-handled frame containing the tariff, “bring this young lady some galantine of chicken.”
Aline, who in her secret heart loved the “eccentric pie-thing” beyond all other dainties, and trembled at the stupendous charge, possibly ninepence or a shilling, that would be made for the galantine, yielded, after the manner of women, because she knew it would please Jimmie. But accustomed to his diplomatic methods, she felt that a red herring—or a galantine—had been drawn across the track.