“Yes,” said he—“that sounds like my friends.... And the fact is I scarcely know myself.”
The dealer nodded:
“Well, sir; what I propose is this: I am not fool enough to think you will turn shopman—it would ruffle you to death—and you’d make a poor one when you did it—your university career has spoilt you for success in business. But if you’ll drop in casually when I ring you up—there’s a telephone in the next room—and give me an opinion whenever I want it; and if you’ll let me furnish this room as your studio with anything you like, just for an advertisement for me amongst your swell friends and the newspapers—if you’ll give me the benefit of your good taste and advice on my better-class furnishing business—I only ask for your mornings—I’ll give you a thousand pound a year for it.”
He peered anxiously at the smart young fellow before him, and added hoarsely:
“For God’s sake don’t say No. There’s my hand on it—or you can take time to think it out if you like.”
He held out a fat jolly vulgar hand.
Bartholomew Doome grasped the hand:
“I’ll do it,” he said. “And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Malahide, I’ll be glad to do it.”
“Right-o!” bawled the fat little dealer, his red face perspiring with glee as he walked briskly up and down rubbing his hands in his relief. “By Rupert, I’m born to luck. Got that beastly job over.... Well, sir, the day after to-morrow you are free of all my shops, or anywhere you like to pick things up; and just you order what you wish for this room—there’s a couple of rather nice little rooms off it, and a jolly little hall—do it all regardless of cost. And—oh yes—— Now look here, Mr. Doome, to-day I cast the die. I’m straight off to give orders to compete for a big hotel.”
He came close to Doome and whispered as though he feared the very walls might hear. Doome listened closely.