“Well, it’s the highest we’d pay. Tell him that.”
“Well, we’ll let it go at thirty-five, and if you’ve a sheet of paper handy I’ll sign an acceptance form on his behalf.”
Sefton Bulmore’s cherrywood cane, which he spun in his hand as he went whistling down the street, was a peril to the neighbourhood. He did not allow himself to be oppressed in the smallest degree that he had turned over to his friend a sum of money of which he was in great personal need. He felt himself amply repaid by having brought the interview to so successful a conclusion. Great is the balm descending upon him that giveth.
Without losing any time he hastened to inform his old colleague of the news, and with truly dramatic sense did not dull the point by approaching it too directly.
He found Eliphalet Cardomay taking a modest luncheon, and sat down to join him without waiting for an invitation.
“Doesn’t seem right to see you out of harness,” he began, his mouth well filled with cheese and pickles. “What’s more, I can’t believe it agrees with you.”
“One feels the difference, of course,” Eliphalet confessed. “However, it is my own choice.”
Bulmore took this statement as a piece of pardonable pride.
“Still, I wonder you don’t do something as a fill-in. Now, there’s quite a decent income waiting to be picked up with the Cinema, y’know.”
“The Cinema!” Eliphalet’s eyebrows arched disapprovingly.