“Only five hundred pounds but exactly five hundred pounds,” continued Repton firmly. “Now Pottle must understand quite clearly that that subscription will neither be increased nor diminished.” He spoke as men speak in a shop, and in a shop of which they have the whip hand.
“That’s between you and Pottle,” said the Prime Minister in the tone of one who doesn’t want to go on with the subject.
“Yes,” said Repton, looking straight in front of him, “it has got to be understood quite clearly. I’ve made it a standing order. Pottle’s never pestered me, but he can pester like the deuce.... And I’ve absolutely made up my mind.”
“Of course, of course,” said the Prime Minister. “I think it’s wise,” he went on,—“It isn’t my business, but I do think it wise to keep in touch with the Central Office. But it’s between you and Pottle.”
There was another long silence as they went down Great George Street.
“That’s all,” said Repton, opposite the Pugin fountain. The two men walked on. The statues of great men long dead looked down upon them; those statues were unused to such conversations. One of the statues must have thought Charles Repton a tactless fellow, but Charles Repton had calculated everything, even to his chances of life and to the number of active years that probably lay before him. And nothing would have more offended or disturbed him than any ambiguity upon the business side of the transaction.
They parted, one for the Court of Dowry, the other for Downing Street, and the affair was settled.
That afternoon the Prime Minister asked Demaine to come and have a cup of tea. He said he would rather it was in his own room; he took Demaine’s arm and led him round.
“Have you anything on to-night, Dimmy?” he said.