James fluttered into conversation with his daughter the next evening, after Miss Pinnegar had retired.
“I told you I had bought a cinematograph building,” said James. “We are negotiating for the machinery now: the dynamo and so on.”
“But where is it to be?” asked Alvina.
“Down at Lumley. I’ll take you and show you the site tomorrow. The building—it is a frame-section travelling theatre—will arrive on Thursday—next Thursday.”
“But who is in with you, father?”
“I am quite alone—quite alone,” said James Houghton. “I have found an excellent manager, who knows the whole business thoroughly—a Mr. May. Very nice man. Very nice man.”
“Rather short and dressed in grey?”
“Yes. And I have been thinking—if Miss Pinnegar will take the cash and issue tickets: if she will take over the ticket-office: and you will play the piano: and if Mr. May learns the control of the machine—he is having lessons now—: and if I am the indoors attendant, we shan’t need any more staff.”
“Miss Pinnegar won’t take the cash, father.”
“Why not? Why not?”