"Ten pounds." The remark met a large Brussels sprout that Mr. Cordal was conveying to his mouth and summarily ejected it.
As Mr. Cordal was something on the Stock Exchange (Mr. Bolton had once said he must be a "bear") he was, at Galvin House, the recognised authority upon all matters of finance.
"Really, Mr. Cordal!" expostulated Mrs. Craske-Morton, rather outraged at this open discussion of Patricia's affairs.
"Sure of it," was all Mr. Cordal vouchsafed as he shovelled in another mouthful.
"You've been a goer in your time, Mr. Cordal," said Mr. Bolton.
Mr. Cordal grunted, which may have meant anything, but in all probability meant nothing.
For a quarter of an hour the inane conversation so characteristic of meal-times at Galvin House continued without interruption. How Patricia hated it. Was this all that life held for her? Was she always to be a drudge to the Bonsors, a victim of the Wangles and a target for the Boltons of life? It was to escape such drab existences that girls went on the stage, or worse; and why not? She had only one life, so far as she knew, and here she was sacrificing it to the jungle people, as she called them. Was there no escape? What St. George would rescue her from this dragon of?
"Colonel Baun, mees."
Patricia looked up with a start from the apple tart with which she was trifling. Gustave stood
