It was an angular little man who spoke. His name was Wilfred Wilfur, and he had inherited more money than his talents would have earned. His own opinions he valued highly, and was alone in this respect.
“We are here to make money—make it, Mr. Cardomay, make money—not to lose. Now I, personally—and I suppose I count—I’m one of the public, you know—I don’t like ‘Hamlet.’ I’ve never read it—never seen it—and I don’t like it.”
“I am suggesting,” said Eliphalet, patiently, “that in this case you consult my views rather than your own. On examining past records I find you have never made less than eight per cent. each year on the capital I have controlled; in many cases far more. This justifies me, I think, in demanding a certain latitude of action.”
“That’s not business, Cardomay,” said Mr. Shingle. “That’s sentiment, that is, and sentiment’s no good. I put you a plain straightforward question. Which’d make most money—‘Hamlet’ or ‘The Night Cry?’ ”
“Money is not the only consideration.”
“It is with us—it is with us,” chirped Mr. Wilfur excitedly.
Eliphalet fidgeted with his cane.
“Financially, in all probability, ‘The Night Cry’ would show better receipts, but——”
“Exactly. Then that settles it—we will put up ‘The Night Cry.’ ”
Eliphalet compressed his lips and rose.