“You will care when you come to think about it. You will have to tell everybody that you came to me to buy a speech which you were about to palm off as your own. There are one or two transactions of the same nature standing over, so to speak. Remember, young gentleman, there are two persons to be exposed: myself, whom the exposure will only advertise, and you yourself, who will be ruined as an orator—or anything else.”
But the young man was implacable. He had his cheque back. This made him stiffer and sterner.
“I care nothing. I could never pretend again to be an orator after last night’s breakdown. I was dumfoundered. I could say nothing: they laughed at me, the whole Hall full of people—three hundred of them—laughed at me—and all through you—through you. I’ll be revenged—I’ll make you sorry for last night’s business—sick and sorry you shall be. As for you——” He turned upon Algernon.
“Shut up, and get out,” said his friend. “Get out, I say, or——”
Algernon made room for him, and the aggrieved client marched out with as much dignity as he could command.
Left together, father and son glared at each other icily. They were both of the same height, tall and thin, and closely resembling each other, with the strong type of the Campaigne face; and both wore pince-nez. The only difference was that the elder of the two was a little thin about the temples.
The consciousness of being in the wrong destroyed the natural superiority of the father. He replied with a weak simulacrum of a laugh.
“Surely the situation explains itself,” he said feebly, opening the door for explanation.
“Am I to understand that for money you write—write—write speeches for people who pretend—actually pretend—that they are their own?”
“Undoubtedly. Did not your friend confess to you why he was coming here?”