“Oh, but I don’t want all those things,” said ’Linda softly, nestling to him. “So that I have you it would not matter, even if we were poor.”
“Nonsense, my darling! there’s no talk of poverty; I tell you we’re rich.” He burst into a roar of laughter. “By ’Jove! I’d no idea that poetry could ever pay so well. But there, while we are spooning and thinking about ourselves, we’re forgetting old Comethup. I dare say he’ll want to be going?”
“Yes,” said Comethup slowly, “I think I’ll be going. Good-night, ’Linda, good-night!”
He was crossing the little hall when Brian dashed out of the room after him, closing the door behind him. He came up to Comethup with his face completely changed, with the hard look upon it which it had worn during their interview in the hotel at Paris.
“Look here, you know,” he said quickly, “let’s have no misunderstanding about this. A bargain’s a bargain; I’ve fulfilled my part, now it’s your turn.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” replied Comethup.
“Well, we want money at once. I’m going to take you at your word. You want to see this comedy played out, and, by Heaven! you’ll have to pay for staging it. It’s a fair bargain: you have the fun of looking on, and I’ve got to play. Did I play my part well to-night?”
Comethup looked at him for a moment and made a movement as though he would strike him; then let his hand fall and turned away. “Almost too well,” he said.
“Ah, there I don’t agree with you; one can’t play a part too well.—So I shall expect to hear from you—say, to-morrow?”
“Yes, you shall hear from me to-morrow.”