It was an angular little man who spoke. His name was Wilfred Wilfur, and he had inherited more money than his talents would have earned. His own opinions he valued highly, and was alone in this respect. “We are here to make money—make it, Mr. Cardomay, make money—not to lose. Now I, personally—and I suppose I count—I’m one of the public, you know—I don’t like ‘Hamlet.’ I’ve never read it—never seen it—and I don’t like it.” “I am suggesting,” said Eliphalet, patiently, “that in this case you consult my views rather than your own. On examining past records I find you have never made less than eight per cent. each year on the capital I have controlled; in many cases far more. This justifies me, I think, in demanding a certain latitude of action.” “That’s not business, Cardomay,” said Mr. Shingle. “That’s sentiment, that is, and sentiment’s no good. I put you a plain straightforward question. Which’d make most money—‘Hamlet’ or ‘The Night Cry?’” “Money is not the only consideration.” “It is with us—it is with us,” chirped Mr. Wilfur excitedly. Eliphalet fidgeted with his cane. “Financially, in all probability, ‘The Night Cry’ would show better receipts, but——” “Exactly. Then that settles it—we will put up ‘The Night Cry.’” Eliphalet compressed his lips and rose. “It is not settled so easily,” he remarked. And for the first time in their mutual association there was a scene. It was decided if Eliphalet desired to retain their services he must adjust his views to theirs. He, as a counter, produced precisely the same terms, and the result was a lock-out. Art _versus_ Commerce. The meeting broke up with generally distributed feelings of grievance and dissatisfaction. Eliphalet Cardomay took some rooms in Trafford Park and sat down to wait until such a time as they should realise their folly and withdraw the opposition to his demands. He was never really happy when not working, and even the pleasant companionship of Mornice failed to dispel the gloom of the days that followed. They were both bitterly disappointed. He at the lack of faith shown by his syndicate, and she at losing her first chance of a big part. It had hurt Eliphalet more than he believed possible to break the news to her after the meeting. “Oh, never mind,” she had said. “I should have been very dud as Ophelia. Anyway, I shall be in ‘The Night Cry,’ shan’t I?” When he told her “The Night Cry” was indefinitely postponed, her distress was evident. Mornice was wholly centred in getting on, and sitting idle in the Trafford Park lodgings was almost more than she could endure. Very discreetly she hinted at being allowed to try for a Cinema engagement to fill in, but on that subject Eliphalet was severe in his disapproval. “Cinematograph acting is not art,” he would say. “Trust me, and sooner or later you shall have your chance. My syndicate will come to their senses before long.”