rights, radio rights, amateur rights, future musical-comedy rights, future picture rights on those, translation into the French, the German, the Italian, the Czechoslovak—Shall we say fifty thousand pounds in all?'
'Fifty thousand!'
'We are being conservative,' Joe reminded him.
'That's a great deal of money.'
'Oh, no. Just a beginning. Merely scratching the surface, you might say. We now come to my next one.'
'You have written another?'
'Not yet. But when I do. Suppose we pencil in a hundred thousand for that, because, of course, one will make one's price for the picture rights stiffer. We must take that into consideration.'
'Of course.'
'Yes, I think we may safely say a hundred thousand pounds. And then – this is where it begins to mount up – there comes the one after that. Try to imagine what that will make!'
'A fortune!'
'Positively.'
Sir Buckstone's head was swimming, but a possible flaw in his companion's reasoning occurred to him. Far-fetched, perhaps, but worth pointing out.
'Suppose your next ones aren't successful?'
Joe raised his eyebrows with a short, amused laugh.
'Of course, of course,' said Sir Buckstone, feeling foolish. 'Of course. Don't know why I said it.'
He was conscious of a slight giddiness. A sudden roseate thought had crossed his mind. Here was this chap – well-knit, clean-cut, quite passably good-looking – with more money than he knew what to do with—Might it not possibly happen that Jane—
'Bless my soul!' he said.
His affection for this sterling young fellow was growing momently.
'Well, I congratulate you. It is a splendid position for you to have reached at your age – er – your brother did not tell me your name?'
'Joe.'
'Joe, eh? Well, my dear Joe, you are certainly entitled to be proud of yourself.'
'Very kind of you to say so, Sir Buckstone.'
'Call me Buck. Why, you're a millionaire!'
'More or less, Buck, I suppose.'
'Bless my soul!' said Sir Buckstone.
He fell into a thoughtful silence. They moved along the terrace and became aware of an elegant figure, standing there in maiden meditation. Sir Buckstone nudged Joe gently.
'Oh, Miss Whittaker,' he called.
'Yes, Sir Buckstone?'
'I believe you know Mr Vanringham? Mr Joe Vanringham. Brother of the other one. He is coming to join us here?'
'Oh, yay-ess?'
'Yes. And I thought – he thought – we both thought he might have a word with you. . . . Good-bye, then, for the present, Joe.'
'See you later, Buck.'
The Baronet disappeared, glad to be removed from contact with the sordid, and Joe turned to Miss Whittaker, to whom it was his intention to talk like a Dutch uncle. His heart ached with an elder brother's pity for Tubby, severed from this girl by what he was sure was only a temporary misunderstanding; and all that was needed, he felt, to clear up this annoying little spot of trouble was a word or two in season from a level-headed man of the world.
These plans, however, which level-headed men of the world form in careless ignorance of what they are up against often fail to reach fruition. There is a type of girl, born in Kensington and trained in business colleges, to whom it is not easy to talk like a Dutch uncle. To this class Prudence Whittaker belonged.
'For about how long,' she asked, 'would it be your intention to remain at the Hall, Mr Vanringham?'
'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'can you look me in the eye?'
She could, and proved it by doing so.
'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'you have treated my brother shamefully Shamefully! My brother, Miss Whittaker.'
'I would prefer to confine our conversation entirely to business, Mr Vanringham.'
'He loves you passionately, madly, Miss Whittaker.'
'I would prefer—'
'And all you have to do in order to place matters once more on their former hotsy-totsy footing is to come clean about that brown-paper package.'
'I would prefer—'
'If it was, as he supposes, jewellery from a city slicker, then there is no more to be said. But if—'
'I would prefer,
'Fifty thousand!'
'We are being conservative,' Joe reminded him.
'That's a great deal of money.'
'Oh, no. Just a beginning. Merely scratching the surface, you might say. We now come to my next one.'
'You have written another?'
'Not yet. But when I do. Suppose we pencil in a hundred thousand for that, because, of course, one will make one's price for the picture rights stiffer. We must take that into consideration.'
'Of course.'
'Yes, I think we may safely say a hundred thousand pounds. And then – this is where it begins to mount up – there comes the one after that. Try to imagine what that will make!'
'A fortune!'
'Positively.'
Sir Buckstone's head was swimming, but a possible flaw in his companion's reasoning occurred to him. Far-fetched, perhaps, but worth pointing out.
'Suppose your next ones aren't successful?'
Joe raised his eyebrows with a short, amused laugh.
'Of course, of course,' said Sir Buckstone, feeling foolish. 'Of course. Don't know why I said it.'
He was conscious of a slight giddiness. A sudden roseate thought had crossed his mind. Here was this chap – well-knit, clean-cut, quite passably good-looking – with more money than he knew what to do with—Might it not possibly happen that Jane—
'Bless my soul!' he said.
His affection for this sterling young fellow was growing momently.
'Well, I congratulate you. It is a splendid position for you to have reached at your age – er – your brother did not tell me your name?'
'Joe.'
'Joe, eh? Well, my dear Joe, you are certainly entitled to be proud of yourself.'
'Very kind of you to say so, Sir Buckstone.'
'Call me Buck. Why, you're a millionaire!'
'More or less, Buck, I suppose.'
'Bless my soul!' said Sir Buckstone.
He fell into a thoughtful silence. They moved along the terrace and became aware of an elegant figure, standing there in maiden meditation. Sir Buckstone nudged Joe gently.
'Oh, Miss Whittaker,' he called.
'Yes, Sir Buckstone?'
'I believe you know Mr Vanringham? Mr Joe Vanringham. Brother of the other one. He is coming to join us here?'
'Oh, yay-ess?'
'Yes. And I thought – he thought – we both thought he might have a word with you. . . . Good-bye, then, for the present, Joe.'
'See you later, Buck.'
The Baronet disappeared, glad to be removed from contact with the sordid, and Joe turned to Miss Whittaker, to whom it was his intention to talk like a Dutch uncle. His heart ached with an elder brother's pity for Tubby, severed from this girl by what he was sure was only a temporary misunderstanding; and all that was needed, he felt, to clear up this annoying little spot of trouble was a word or two in season from a level-headed man of the world.
These plans, however, which level-headed men of the world form in careless ignorance of what they are up against often fail to reach fruition. There is a type of girl, born in Kensington and trained in business colleges, to whom it is not easy to talk like a Dutch uncle. To this class Prudence Whittaker belonged.
'For about how long,' she asked, 'would it be your intention to remain at the Hall, Mr Vanringham?'
'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'can you look me in the eye?'
She could, and proved it by doing so.
'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'you have treated my brother shamefully Shamefully! My brother, Miss Whittaker.'
'I would prefer to confine our conversation entirely to business, Mr Vanringham.'
'He loves you passionately, madly, Miss Whittaker.'
'I would prefer—'
'And all you have to do in order to place matters once more on their former hotsy-totsy footing is to come clean about that brown-paper package.'
'I would prefer—'
'If it was, as he supposes, jewellery from a city slicker, then there is no more to be said. But if—'
'I would prefer,
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