“Business!”—Charlie hung up his soft hat—“what sort of business? I didn’t know there was any business left to talk about.”
He also unlocked his desk; sat down at it; took out a cigar-box; selected a weed. Looking at the two of them, Peter could not help a totally unreasonable feeling of contempt—contempt not only for them, but for himself for wanting money from them. There was a little of the Weasel’s rasp in his voice as he began:
“The business is this. As you know, Simpson is dead. There’s no one left to carry on Jamesons. And so, I’ve got to sell it. I’ve come to you first. You know almost as much about the show as I do. If you want it, you must make up your minds within twenty-four hours. . . .”
“Rather rushing things, aren’t you, Peter?” interrupted Maurice.
“Possibly,”—it must be remembered that Peter knew his men pretty well—“but what am I to do? Leave doesn’t last for ever; and I’ve got to have the whole thing settled before I go away.”
“But what’s the price?” Charlie’s mind moved more directly if less rapidly than his brother’s.
“Well”—Peter spoke slowly—“of course you’ll take stock and book-debts at a valuation. We shan’t quarrel about that. The only question is how much the goodwill’s worth.”
“Goodwill!” Maurice screwed his monocle back into his eye. “My dear Peter, you must be joking. I shouldn’t dream of paying for goodwill.” (“Then he’s a buyer!” commented Peter’s mind.) “A cigar importing business has no goodwill. You and I decided that years ago. It’s a personal business.”
“Not under present conditions. The import-licence represents a share in an absolute monopoly.”
“Only while the war lasts.”