“From both of you. I expect tact from you because you are my son.”
“But why doesn’t father talk to Sartwell? I know nothing of the business, and father does; it seems to be entirely in his line, don’t you know?”
“Your father, Barnard, is a timorous man, and he actually is afraid of his manager. He thinks it is interference and doesn’t want to meddle, so he says, as if a man were meddling in looking after his own affairs! He fears Sartwell will resign, but that kind of man knows where his own interest lies. I’ll risk his resigning, and I want you to see him at his house, for it is no use bothering your father about these things.”
“I don’t like the job, mater; it does look like interference.”
Mrs. Hope again raised her lorgnette by its long tortoise-shell handle, and once more surveyed the studio.
“This must have cost you a good deal of money, Barnard,” she said, impartially.
“It did,” admitted the young man.
“I suppose I shall soon have to be writing another cheque for you. For how much shall I make it?”
“It is such a pity to trouble you so often, mater,” replied the young man, “that perhaps we had better say three hundred.”
“Very well,” said his mother, rising, “I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton after having seen Sartwell at Wimbledon. It is on your way, you know.”