“And while I’m about it,” pursued Ilam unheedingly—his irritation was like a stone rolling down a hill—“while I’m about it, I’ll point out that your objection to having advertisements on the walls of the restaurants is fatuous.”
“But, my dear Ilam,” Carpentaria protested, “people don’t care to have to read advertisements while they’re at their meals. It puts them off. For instance, to have it dinned into you that G. H. Mumm is the only champagne worth drinking when you happen to be drinking Heidsieck, or to have Wall’s sausages thrust down your throat while you are toying with an ice-cream—people don’t like it. We must think of our patrons. And, besides, it’s so inarti——”
“Rubbish!” said Ilam. “One way and another these ads. would be worth a hundred’ a week to us.”
“Well, and what’s a hundred a week?”
“It’s the interest on a hundred and twenty thousand pounds,” Ilam replied vivaciously. “And there’s another thing. It would be much better if you employed more time in inspection instead of rehearsing and conducting your precious band. Any fool can conduct a band. Give me a stick and I’d do it myself. But inspection———”
“My precious band!” stammered Carpentaria, aghast.
His very soul was laid low; and considering that Carpentaria’s Band had been famous in the capitals of two continents for twelve years at least, it was not surprising that his soul should be laid low by this terrible phrase.
“Yes,” said Ilam, “I’ve had enough of it.” His shoulder touched Carpentaria’s, and his eyes—little, like a pig’s—shot arrows of light. “Supposing I shoved you over? I should have the concern to myself then, and no foolish interference.”
He twisted his face into a grim laugh.
“You have a sense of humour, after all, Ilam,” responded gaily the man on the edge of the car, fingering his long red moustache, and he, too, laughed, but he got down from his perch.