“Yes, yes, and to tell you the truth, Bulmore, I was a bit low. That thirty-five guineas you put me in the way of earning was a godsend. But now! they can’t do enough—insisted on my accepting a big advance.” And he flourished a wad of notes before Bulmore’s hungry eyes. With all the will in the world, the old fellow could not help wishing his friend would be a trifle less arrogant about his finances. It is a severe test on a man who has nothing in his pockets to resist envying one who has so much, especially when he knows that but for a flash of generosity some of that money would have been his own. 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.” “God bless you, old man.” And, tucking the money in his pocket, he shuffled down the street. CHAPTER X THE DEAR DEPARTED If Eliphalet Cardomay never pretended Mornice June was his own daughter he certainly never checked her from calling him Father, or any other such title her fancy devised. A man on the very wrong side of sixty, who has never been so called, finds the sound of that name comes very sweetly to his ears. When he met her at the station on her return from the tour, she halloed “Father” from the carriage window, and leapt into his arms before the train had stopped. Usually Eliphalet was a ceremonious man under the eye of the public, but on this occasion he returned her embraces with a warmth equal to her own.