"You don't happen to have a card about you?"
"I always carry a pack when Tm going anywhere, but—I don't care to play."
"You don't care to what?"
"To play—unless you feel uncommonly keen."
Miss Paynter laughed.
"You misunderstand my mother. She is not asking you for a pack of cards—she doesn't, as a rule, play cards in a train—but for a visiting-card."
"Oh! I see. Exchange pasteboards and that sort of thing. Daresay I've got one somewhere."
From a pocket-book which seemed to contain a very miscellaneous collection he produced, after long searching, a visiting-card. It was a good deal soiled and the comers were dog's-eared. He commented on its defects as he handed it to Mrs. Paynter.
"There's a few figures on the back, but perhaps you'll excuse 'em. Fact is, I never seem to want a card. I've never got one, anyway."
Mrs. Paynter could not have taken that disreputable square of pasteboard with a more dainty grace had it been the most delicate and costly thing in the world. When she saw that great name imprinted on its front—it was just legible, no more—she swelled, positively and visibly increased in stature. With infinite condescension from her silver card-case she took a card, stiff as buckram, and even dazzlingly white.
"Allow me to have the honour to present your Grace with my card."
"His Grace" looked at the card.
"Paynter? Any relation to Billy Paynter?"
"What Paynter is that?"
