He inclined his head gracefully to Eliphalet, who bowed in response.
“I am disposed to be interested,” he said.
“For the Ghost, now, where is a manager to turn? That very thought was possessing my brain when I chanced to look up and see you. If you are not otherwise engaged, how would it be to stroll to the Corner and pick up a hansom? They have a chef at the Garrick with a true appreciation of how a Châteaubriand should be cooked.”
The upshot of this conversation and an excellent lunch was to find Eliphalet Cardomay, at three o’clock the same afternoon, discussing terms with the business manager of the Mall.
“I never talk about money,” Mr. Deansgate had said. “Tell Dawson to give you what you want.”
Winslow Dawson was an agreeable little man, who had the habit of paying less than you intended to accept, at the same time conveying the impression that you had bested him all along the line. He carried his hands permanently in his trousers pockets, from whence they never appeared to emerge, even when a door had to be opened or shut or a contract signed. He performed these functions, so it seemed, by some balancing feat of prestidigitation. He had a habit of balancing on his heels and contemplating his patent-leather toes. He would remain thus during a long discussion, then look up with the sunniest of smiles and say, “Then that’s settled, isn’t it?”
When Eliphalet left the theatre it was in a very happy mood. After all, he would appear in London again, and—what was better still—in a part regarding the rendering of which he could scarcely be at fault.
Mr. Deansgate had said, “Do just as you like with it, my dear Cardomay; we have every confidence in you.”
In honour of the occasion he stood himself tea at Fuller’s and ate quite a large piece of walnut cake.
“A delightful management,” he reflected. “This is better than a holiday, old boy.”