You could actually see midgets laughing outright in the mist of smoke; the chatter narrowly escaped being a din; and at intervals a diminutive boy entered and bawled the name of a midget at the top of his voice, Priam was suddenly electrified, and Mr.Oxford, very alert, noticed the electrification.
Mr.Oxford drank his coffee somewhat quickly, and then he leaned forward a little over the table, and put his moon-like face nearer to Priam's, and arranged his legs in a truly comfortable position beneath the table, and expelled a large quantity of smoke from his cigar.

It was clearly the preliminary to a scene of confidence, the approach to the crisis to which he had for several hours been leading up.
Priam's heart trembled.
"What is your opinion, _maitre_," he asked, "of the ultimate value of Farll's pictures ?" Priam was in misery.

Mr.Oxford's manner was deferential, amiable and expectant.

But Priam did not know what to say.

He only knew what he would do if he could have found the courage to do it: run away, recklessly, unceremoniously, out of that club.
"I--I don't know," said Priam, visibly whitening.
"Because I've bought a goodish few Farlls in my time," Mr.Oxford continued, "and I must say I've sold them well.