“Agreed,” he said. “Still, there are times when we must tone down our ideals a bit and take what pickings lie around. Matter of fact, I was talking to Eastlake this morning—Eastlake’s Exclusives, y’know—and he gave me to understand he’d be very glad of your services.” “I am sorry to disappoint the gentleman, Bulmore, but my views on this subject are too pronounced to allow me to relax them on his account.” This was pride with a vengeance, thought Bulmore, and he stumbled badly. “Money’s good,” he said. “Thirty-five pounds for two weeks’ work can’t be sneezed at, y’know.” “If I allowed money to influence me,” responded Eliphalet, “I would never be able to hold up my head again.” “But—Well! I mean—I hardly know what to say next, old man.” “Say nothing. We have so many topics in common, it is a pity to pursue one in which we are at variance.” Bulmore ran his fingers through his thin hair. “It’s this way, old man,” he said. “You—you’d be doing me a real favour by accepting this shop—a real favour to me.” “Forgive me asking, but how can that be?” This was clearly a moment for invention, and Bulmore wrestled with his ingenuity before answering, and finally produced: “Because I want to make a favourable impression with the firm. If they saw I was a friend of yours, it’ud do me a piece of good.” “But why not ask for the part yourself?” suggested Eliphalet, by no means displeased with the compliment. “I did, but they won’t have me. They are dead-set on you, and no one else will do. Now, as a pal——” “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.” As Bulmore walked down the street there was no swinging cane to mark the gaiety of his mood. He felt bruised and disappointed. The affair had turned out so differently from expectations.