this Sawney—a contradiction in terms and yet the only word which seemed to describe him after all!—must have seen the force of it. But not he! He solemnly rose and collected the plates, and then fetched in the tapioca pudding for all the world as if there was absolutely no point in the remark.
"Who did you say that tall girl was?" said June, returning mothlike to the flame, as she helped the Sawney very substantially to his favourite dish.
"Miss Babraham!"
"And who did you say her father was?"
"Sir Arthur Babraham!"
"And what might he do for a living?"
This was not ignorance. It was mere facetiousness. She knew quite well that no Sir Arthur Babraham since first invented by that ridiculous monarch, King James, had ever done anything for a living. But it was good to feel how such a "break" would have hurt Miss Preece.
"He's one of the richest men in England," said William, dipping his spoon into his tapioca with an impersonality which approached the sublime.
June knew that. There was the daughter of Sir Arthur Babraham to prove it.
"One of Uncle Si's best customers, I suppose?"
"Doesn't often come here. But he has wonderful taste."
"In daughters?" said June sardonically.
"In everything. Only last night I read in the paper that there isn't a better judge of pictures living."
June merely said "Oh!"
"He's one of the trustees of the National Gallery, you know."
