“Jacqueline. She told me you often said that what you needed was a complete change. And it seems the doctor says so, too.”
“Oh! doctors!” she murmured, without however denying the truth of Jacqueline’s assertion. She saw hope in Mr. Mardon’s eyes.
“Of course, you know,” he said, still more confidentially, “if you SHOULD happen to change your mind, I’m always ready to form a little syndicate to take this”—he waved discreetly at the Pension—“off your hands.”
She shook her head violently, which was strange, considering that for weeks she had been wishing to hear such words from Mr. Mardon.
“You needn’t give it up altogether,” he said. “You could retain your hold on it. We’d make you manageress, with a salary and a share in the profits. You’d be mistress just as much as you are now.”
“Oh!” said she carelessly. “IF I GAVE IT UP, I SHOULD GIVE IT UP ENTIRELY. No half measures for me.”
With the utterance of that sentence, the history of Frensham’s as a private understanding was brought to a close. Sophia knew it. Mr. Mardon knew it. Mr. Mardon’s heart leapt. He saw in his imagination the formation of the preliminary syndicate, with himself at its head, and then the re-sale by the syndicate to a limited company at a profit. He saw a nice little profit for his own private personal self of a thousand or so—gained in a moment. The plant, his hope, which he had deemed dead, blossomed with miraculous suddenness.
“Well,” he said. “Give it up entirely, then! Take a holiday for life. You’ve deserved it, Mrs. Scales.”
She shook her head once again.
“Think it over,” he said.