“No,” replied Eliphalet firmly; “it is asking too much of friendship. Please let us drop the subject.”
Then Bulmore played his last card.
“If you refuse, you’ll do for me absolutely, because—well, I—I made ’em a solemn promise in your name that you’d take it.”
“Surely not!”
“I did, old man—and signed a contract for you into the bargain.”
For a moment Eliphalet’s indignation was too great for expression. He took several turns up and down the little room, tossing his head and ejaculating “tchas” of displeasure.
“Too bad! Too bad altogether. After all these years, Bulmore! You should have known me better! To prostitute my art in this way! Too—too bad!”
“I’ve done it now,” muttered Bulmore, with hanging head. “And I suppose you’ll do me?”
There was pathos in every line of the little man’s figure, for he could act very realistically when he chose. Eliphalet saw, and could not ignore, the silent appeal. With an effort he walked over and laid a hand on the bent shoulders.
“And you should know me better than to think that,” he said. “I never go back on my friends, whatever the cost. You may tell Mr. Eastlake I am pleased to accept his offer. And now let us say no more about it.”