All his story was perfectly plausible to me. Looking back now I do not really see that any country parson, ignorant alike of commerce and of the near East, could be blamed for finding nothing suspicious in it.
“Then you wouldn’t mind our business being in Brighton?” he asked. “It’s a bit near you. But of course our name won’t be over the window. No need for anyone to know you’ve any association with it at all. Welfare wants to call it ‘Oriental Bazaar’ or some old stale thing like that. He was wild with me for suggesting ‘Fakes Limited.’ One reason he wants Brighton is because the Astarte could stand in near enough to be seen from the front and send in boat-loads of stuff under the eyes of the populace. Then it’s handy for London, and of course the real trade must go through London. But of course the main reason for striking Brighton is that its season is all the year round. It’s always full of people with more money than brains.”
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” I said, and I really meant it. “Everything you sell, whatever its price, will be the genuine thing—straight from the East. We associate shop-keeping with the huckstering ideas of a servile class. I’ve often wanted to prove that shop-keeping, all trade, can be ennobled. But what can a mere shareholder do? What does he know even of the things that are done in his name?”
“Wait a minute, old man. I don’t want to give you any impression that we’re out for the purification of trade, or anything of the sort. We’re out for money—and fun. At least I am. Welfare’s out for money.”
“Quite,” said I, in my new-born enthusiasm. “And it’s all the better. I don’t want any amateur things. They’re all quack things. Edmund, I’d like to be a partner in this. If you want capital, you know I can find it.”
To my surprise Edmund looked rather distressed.
“It might seem cheap,” I continued, “to offer you money now when you are prospering and probably can get it without difficulty. I mean after I refused to finance you before. But I’m sure you know me better than to think it’s only security I have in mind.”
“I do, old man,” said Edmund, “I know you too well. I know you would give me all the money we want and more. And as a financial proposition I could honestly advise you to do it. But somehow I don’t want you to. Money after all is a very secondary thing—when you have got it. Welfare can raise all we want, he says, in the city. You keep out of it.”
“But I want to be in it! Can’t you imagine a little craving for romance, even at my advanced age? And the Levant! Do you know I correspond in Latin with monasteries there? That I have always promised myself a trip there and have been too lazy to go? Couldn’t I go to Scutari in the Astarte if I were a partner? And I have a dear friend in Aleppo whom I have never seen. I wonder what a monk’s Latin would sound like, spoken? This man I believe started life as an Albanian.”
“I don’t know,” said Edmund. “I never tried talking Latin to an Albanian monk. As a matter of fact I never got beyond ‘mensa’ myself. I started ‘dominus’ and switched on to the modern side, just when I arrived at the genitive plural. Of course we could go up the Dardanelles and you could get ashore and explore about. But if it’s business, you must talk it over with Welfare. He’s coming to Brighton.”