“Then you will carry it out, sir, from some other place than from within the walls of my office,” Mr. Dowling declared, furiously. “You understand that, Tavernake?”
“Perfectly,” Tavernake answered. “You wish me to leave you. It is very unwise of you to suggest it, but I am quite prepared to go.”
“You will either resell me those plots at cost price, or you shall not set foot within the office again,” Mr. Dowling insisted. “It is a gross breach of faith, this. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. Most unprofessional, impossible behavior!”
Tavernake showed no signs of anger—he simply turned a little away.
“I shall not sell you my land, Mr. Dowling,” he said, “and it will suit me very well to leave your employ. You appear,” he continued, “to expect some one else to do the whole of the work for you while you reap the entire profits. Those days have gone by. My business in the world is to make a fortune for myself, and not for you!”
“How dare you, sir!” Mr. Dowling cried. “I never heard such impertinence in my life.”
“You haven't done a stroke of work for five years,” Tavernake went on, unmoved, “and my efforts have supplied you with a fairly good income. In future, those efforts will be directed towards my own advancement.”
Mr. Dowling turned back toward the car.
“Young man,” he said, “you can brazen it out as much as you like, but you have been guilty of a gross breach of faith. I shall take care that the exact situation is made known in all responsible quarters. You'll get no situation with any firm with whom I am acquainted—I can promise you that. If you have anything more to say to Dowling, Spence & Company, let it be in writing.”
They parted company there and then. Tavernake and Beatrice went down the hill in silence.