The fat little man stood back a pace:
“Eh? Pretty strenuous idea, that!... Ye see, Wollup he did the one just opposite.... Now, I don’t mind even dropping a bit of money over it. Can you go over Wollup’s upholstery debauch to-morrow morning, then meet me opposite after lunch, and just give me tips to lick Wollup off his bunyanny feet?”
Doome nodded.
“Good!” said the beaming Pompey. “My manager will be at my elbow making notes. Don’t take no notice of him. Just you plan the hotel like a lady’s boodywar, in good colour and telling style—the sort o’ thing that pleases the eye so you want to kiss it. Make it sing—like a ruddy violin. It’s got to put me in front of Tankerton Wollup. See? Just come in, sir, as if you had a mortgage on the place—don’t mind me—and—well, it’ll be a bit of All-Right-O! See?... Oh,” he added, growing suddenly serious—“look here, Mr. Doome—you see—my boy’s at Harrow, so he’s all safe from me, bless the lad; but—my girls are springing up—rising sixteen one of ’em—and—they are fine stylish girls, too—but—sometimes—I have my qualms that I rub them on the raw a bit. Now, you might give me a hint—now and again—if I—well—you know! Just say: Malahide, my boy, you’re on the vulgar side, see?”
“Off side, eh?”
“That’s it.”
Doome laughed:
“You’ll be a baronet yet,” said he.