“Isn’t that moonlight beautiful?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” returned Connorton, impatiently, “it’s fine, very fine, indeed.” He waited then for Hartley’s wandering attention to return to the pen and paper; but Hartley continued to gaze dreamily over the lake until Connorton, in desperation, finally reminded him that they were neglecting the business in hand.
“Of course,” admitted Hartley. “Business and moonlight don’t mix, and the moonlight effect, Connorton, is never twice alike. I suppose you never noticed that, but it’s so. A moonlight effect once gone is lost forever, whereas it’s my experience that you can’t lose business at all. It is for us, therefore, to make the most of moonlight.”
“Look here!” exclaimed the exasperated Connorton. “Cut out this foolishness, and I’ll make the bonus two thousand.”
“Foolishness?” repeated Hartley.
“Yes, foolishness,” insisted Connorton.
“How absurd and unreasonable you are!” complained Hartley. “Why, you’re the one that’s foolish—bringing business up here into the woods where a man ought never even to think of it. I’m strictly in harmony with the surroundings—dreamy, impractical, erratic—but you are not. You’re a prosaic mortal, Connorton, and you’re very, very foolish to be here.”
Connorton was surprised and troubled.
“However,” resumed Hartley, again picking up the pen, “I believe you said two thousand.”
“I did,” returned Connorton, encouraged. “I’ll add two thousand to what I’ve already paid you for your patent if you’ll sign that paper now, and go back with me to-morrow and put the whole matter in legal and binding shape.”