Though the Baron, was tall, he towered above him. And
he hardly realized the harshness, the vexed contempt, of his muttered
reply:
"I don't want your charity, I want work."
At once he was conscious of his mistake. He had sunk voluntarily to the
level of the Vauxhall paraders. He had even stolen their thunder. A
twinge of self-denunciation drove the anger from his frowning eyes. And
the Baron again thought he read his man correctly.
"Even so," he said, in a low tone, "take my card. I can find you work,
of the right sort, for one who has brains and pluck, yes?"
The continental trick of ending with an implied question lent a subtle
meaning to his utterance, and he helped it with covert glance and sour
smile. Thus might Caesar Borgia ask some minion if he could use a
dagger. But Royson was too humiliated by his blunder to pay heed to
hidden meanings. He grasped the card in his muddied fingers, and looked
towards Miss Fenshawe, who was now patting one of the horses. Her
aristocratic aloofness was doubly galling.
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