"Thank you ever so much," I answered, taking it and examining it curiously.
Truly he was a skilled workman, this man whose colossal wealth was remarkable, even among England's many millionaires.
"I only ask one favour," he said, as we passed out and he locked the door of his workshop behind us. "That you will tell no one of my hobby—that I have returned to my own trade. For Gerald's sake I am compelled to keep up an appearance, and some of his friends would sneer if they knew that his father still worked and earned money in his odd moments."
"Do you earn money?" I inquired, amazed.
"Certainly. A firm in Bond Street buy all my ivory work, only they're not, of course, aware that it comes from me. It wouldn't do, you know. My work, you see, provides me with a little pocket-money. It has done so ever since I left the factory," he added simply.
"I promise you, Mr. Keppel, that I'll tell no one, if you wish it to remain a secret. I had no idea that you actually sold your turnings."
"You don't blame me, surely?" he said.
"Certainly not," I answered.
It seemed, however, ludicrous that this multi-millionaire, with his great house in Park Lane, his shooting-box in Scotland, his yacht, which was acknowledged to be one of the finest afloat, and his villa there on the Riviera, should toil at turning, in order to make a pound or two a week as pocket-money.
"When I worked as a turner in the old days, I earned sixteen shillings a week, by making butter dishes and bread plates, wooden bowls, salad spoons, and such like, and I earn about the same to-day when I've paid for the ivory, and the necessary things for the 'shop,'" he explained. Then he added: "You seem to think it strange, Miss Rosselli. If you place yourself for a moment in my position, that of a man without further aim or ambition, you will not be surprised that I have, after nearly forty years, returned to the old trade to which I served my apprenticeship."