“All the same,” he said, reverting abruptly to the starting point of his speech, “it’s a pity we have to let Ascher into this new cinematograph racket; but we can’t help it. In fact I expect he’s in already.”
“Lending money to Tim for experiments?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” said Gorman, “unless he’d made sure of his share of the spoil afterwards.”
“Gorman,” I said, “why don’t you make a law to suppress Ascher. You believe in making laws, and, according to your own showing, that would be a very useful one.”
Gorman gave me no answer. I knew he could not, because there is no answer to give. If laws had any effect on life, as Gorman pretends to believe, he would make one which would do away with Ascher. But he knows in his heart that he might just as well make a law forbidding the wind to blow from the east. Instead of taking any notice of my question he pulled out his watch and looked at it.
“Nine o’clock,” he said. “I must be off to the House at once. An important division has been arranged for a quarter past. Just ask your man to call a taxi, will you?”
“Why go?” I said. “If the division is arranged the result will be arranged too.”
“Of course it is,” said Gorman. “You don’t suppose the Whips leave that to chance.”
“I must say you manage these things very badly. Here you are smoking comfortably after dinner, not in the least inclined to stir, and yet you say you have to go. Why don’t you introduce a system of writing cheques? ‘Pay the Whip of my Party or bearer 150 votes. Signed Michael Gorman, M. P.’”
“That’s rather a good idea,” said Gorman. “It would save a lot of trouble.”