Eliphalet Cardomay might not always have shown genius in his portrayal of emotions, but he understood them very thoroughly, notwithstanding.
Eventually Bulmore could endure the ordeal no longer, and rose to take his departure. At the hall door he halted indecisively, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat a good deal, but he said nothing. So Eliphalet took the bull by the horns.
“Yes, I am very grateful indeed,” he repeated for the twentieth time, “and if there is the slightest thing I can do for you by way of return, I shall take it as unfriendly if you fail to name it.”
“Thank ye,” said Bulmore huskily. “I won’t forget.” He descended one step, then turned. “Matter of fact,” he admitted with rather a dry tongue, “I am just a wee bit short of ready at the moment, and a sovereign or two——”
“Why, my dear old friend, I wouldn’t insult you with such a loan. Here, take”—and he produced the roll of notes—“take these. No, no; I insist—please. There! that’s right. Not a word—I beg you. After all, we are friends, and between friends—— But what a moon! Wonderful night—wonderful night.”
“Old man!” said Bulmore, wringing his hand in silent gratitude and sniffling suggestively. “Dear old man!”
For some reason Eliphalet sniffed too.
“We’re a couple of fools, Bulmore,” he said, at last; “a couple of old fools.”
“No, actors, laddie; actors.”
“That’s it—actors. Sometimes I think it is a very great thing to be an actor. Good night.”