His cheeks were sallow; and his eyes, deeply inset,
were closer together than any I have ever seen.
"My dear," Mr. Parker exclaimed, "let me present Mr. Moss--my daughter,
sir; Mr. Walmsley--also one of us. I have been privileged," Mr. Parker
continued, dropping his voice a little, "to watch Mr. Moss at work this
afternoon; and I can assure you that a more consummate artist I have never
seen--in Wall Street, at a racetrack meeting, or anywhere else."
Mr. Moss smiled deprecatingly and jerked his head sideways.
"The old un's pretty fly!" he remarked, as he laid his hat on the table.
"I am very glad to know Mr. Moss, of course," Eve said; "but I am not in
the least in sympathy with the--er--branch of our industry he represents.
You know, daddy, it's much too dangerous and not a bit remunerative."
"To a certain extent, my dear," her father admitted, "I am with you. Not
all the way, though. One needs, of course, to discriminate. Personally I
must admit that the nerve and actual genius required in finger
manipulation have always attracted me."
Mr. Moss paused, with his glass halfway to his lips. He jerked his head in
the direction of Mr. Parker.
"He is one for the gab, ain't he?" he remarked confidentially to me.
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