“He’s only in the way now,” Jos proceeded gloomily.
“I suppose he wouldn’t retire,” Mrs. Ilam suggested.
“Retire? Of course he wouldn’t retire—nothing would induce him to retire. He enjoys it—he enjoys annoying me.”
“Anyway,” said the mother, “you’ll have the satisfaction of a very great success.”
She looked out of the window at the gardens.
“Yes,” growled Ilam. “And he gets half the profits. I’ve found all the money, and he hasn’t found a cent. But he gets half the profits. What for? A few ideas—nothing else. He pretends to direct, but he’ll direct nothing except his blessed band. And I reckon we shall clear a profit of ten thousand a week! Half of ten is five.”
“He only gets half the profits as long as he lives, Jos,” said Mrs. Ilam. “After that—nothing.”
“Nothing,” agreed Jos, biting cruelly into a hot scone. “But as long as he lives he’s costing me, say, five thousand a week, besides worry.”
“He mayn’t live long,” Mrs. Ilam ventured. “No, but he may live fifty-years.”
“Supposing he died very suddenly, Jos,” Mrs. Ilam pursued calmly; “he wouldn’t be the first person that was inconvenient to you who had disappeared unexpectedly.”