Mr. Schröder, more leaden-coloured than ever, said, "Certainly." Mrs. Schröder, who had been looking down at the table, and playing with her dessert-knife, rose with the rest of the ladies, and left the room. After their departure, the West-end section, including Beresford, Lyster, and Monkhouse, seemed to get silent and abstracted; while Mr. Schröder's particular friends from the City, the bank-directors and public-company men, re-invigorated themselves with port, and discussed the politics of Threadneedle Street and the chances of change in the discount rate in hoarse whispers. Solemn dulness fell upon the West-end division: Lyster dropped into a semi-dose; Mr. Monkhouse tried to focus the talkers one by one, but failing, fell to polishing his eyeglass and admiring his nails; the cinnamon-whiskered man cut into the conversation once in the wrong place, and, having plainly showed himself to be an idiot, was promptly extinguished; and Beresford fell into a dreamy state, in which his liabilities ranged themselves in horrible array before him, and he went into wild speculations as to how they might be met. While in this state, he became conscious of old Mr. Townshend's voice, laying down the law, in most imperative style, on matters of finance, and suddenly he remembered his promise to Simnel. He waited for his opportunity when Mr. Townshend ceased for an instant, and then said: "My dear Mr. Schröder, you can't tell how horrible it is for us impecunious people to listen to this tremendously ingotted talk. We look upon you as a dozen Sinbad the Sailors, each having found his own peculiar treasure in the Valley of Diamonds. Ah! if it were only given to me to fathom the secret of money-making!" The City section were pleased at this concession, and took the remarks as complimentary. Mr. Schröder smiled, and said sententiously: "Business has its cares as well as its pleasures." Mr. Townshend nodded his head, saying, "You gentlemen despise our prosaic ways and business routine; with you--" "Business routine!" exclaimed Beresford. "Why, you make a fortune by the arrival of a telegram, by the nod of a cabinet-minister's head. I'm not so ignorant of these mercantile matters as you may fancy. When I was in the habit of staying with my intimate friend Pigott, of the firm of Pigott and Wells--" "What name did you say?" asked Mr. Townshend, with a blanched face. "Pigott and Wells," repeated Beresford slowly, looking at him stedfastly; "merchants of Combcardingham. Do you know the firm?" "No, not at all. That is--I--" and Mr. Townshend's teeth chattered as he gulped down a bumper of port and cowered in his chair, as a tremendous knock, reverberating through the house, announced the arrival of the first guests for the reception.