“If you will be so kind.”
Ashmead rejoiced at this unguarded permission, and ordered a supper that made Karl stare.
The Klosking returned in about half an hour, clad in a crisp peignoir.
Ashmead confronted her. “I have ordered a bottle of champagne,” said he. Her answer surprised him. “You have done well. We must now begin to prove the truth of the old proverb, 'Ce qui vient de la flute s'en va au tambour.'”
At supper Mr. Ashmead was the chief drinker, and, by a natural consequence, the chief speaker: he held out brilliant prospects; he favored the Klosking with a discourse on advertising. No talent availed without it; large posters, pictures, window-cards, etc.; but as her talent was superlative, he must now endeavor to keep up with it by invention in his line—the puff circumstantial, the puff poetic, the puff anecdotal, the puff controversial, all tending to blow the fame of the Klosking in every eye, and ring it in every ear. “You take my advice,” said he, “and devote this money, every penny of it, to Publicity. Don't you touch a single shiner for anything that does not return a hundred per cent. Publicity does, when the article is prime.”
“You forget,” said she, “this money does not all belong to me. Another can claim half; the gentleman with whom we are in partnership.”
Ashmead looked literally blue. “Nonsense!” said he, roughly. “He can only claim his fifty pounds.”
“Nay, my friend. I took two equal sums: one was his, one mine.”
“That has nothing to do with it. He told me to bet for him. I didn't; and I shall take him back his fifty pounds and say so. I know where to find him.”
“Where?”