"No, my boy," he said. "No!"
Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.
"I'll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens."
Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:
"Scrivens---but they're not--" then, staring rather hard, he added: "I
won't bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father's solicitors too,
aren't they? Always been sorry he didn't come to me. Shall we join the
ladies?" And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain
in his mind than on his feet....
Charles Ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within
than met the eye. But there was a good deal going on that evening, and
after his conversation with young Bob he had occasion more than once to
turn away and rub his hands together. When, after that second creditors'
meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of
"The Island Navigation Company," he had been deep in thought. Short,
squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop
whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he
impressed at first sight only by a certain truly British vulgarity.
One felt that here was a hail-fellow--well-met man who liked lunch and
dinner, went to Scarborough for his summer holidays, sat on his wife,
took his daughters out in a boat and was never sick.
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