“Sorry,” she said. “But there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you. What is Sir Oswald Coote?”

“I told you⁠—a steamroller.”

“I don’t mean your personal impression of him. How did he make his money⁠—trouser buttons or brass beds or what?”

“Oh, I see. He’s steel. Steel and iron. He’s got the biggest steel works, or whatever you call it, in England. He doesn’t, of course, run the show personally now. It’s a company or companies. He got me in as a director of something or other. Very good business for me⁠—nothing to do except go down to the city once or twice a year to one of those hotel places⁠—Cannon Street or Liverpool Street⁠—and sit round a table where they have very nice new blotting paper. Then Coote or some clever Johnny makes a speech simply bristling with figures, but fortunately you needn’t listen to it⁠—and I can tell you, you often get a jolly good lunch out of it.”