Dombey stood up to shake hands almost with an air of constraint. “Methuen,” he said, “very good show. Hope you are not too badly hurt.”
They sat down and Methuen gave them his own account of the mission — somehow more real and actual than those cold bare telegrams which had recorded each stage so objectively. “And the fishing was good — what there was of it,” he could not resist adding.
“I told you it would be,” said Dombey without turning a hair.
“Moreover,” said Methuen, “I made a point of getting away with part of the treasure.” In the pockets of his duffle coat he had discovered a couple of gold coins. One of these had already transferred itself to the watch-chain of the Ambassador. The other he now groped for and produced for his chief. “Ah!” said Dombey, “a gold Napoleon. So at least your story was not invented. I sometimes suspect you fellows of making things up as you go along.”
“In the past, perhaps,” agreed Methuen equably. “But this time: no. And if you want further proof I can produce some authentic rock which lodged itself in my calf. The Professor will bear witness that it is a genuine piece of Serbia.”
“Good,” said Dombey. “And now I want to take you out to dinner. There is a young woman who is probably waiting at the corner table I’ve booked, a woman who.…
“Vida!” said Methuen with delight.
“Vida.”
“It’s a small world.”
And now Dombey surprised him by quoting in Serbian, with a fairish accent, the old proverb: “The world is always too small for the large in heart.”