Young Phipson dropped an expression
which I will not transcribe. (I understand this work may circulate
among families.) And after a solemn promise of death-like secrecy,
the meeting separated.
I noticed that my brother-in-law somewhat ostentatiously avoided
Mosenheimer at the door; and that Phipson jumped quickly into his
own carriage. "Home!" Charles cried gloomily to the coachman as we
took our seats in the brougham. And all the way to Mayfair he leaned
back in his seat, with close-set lips, never uttering a syllable.
Before he retired to rest, however, in the privacy of the
billiard-room, I ventured to ask him: "Charles, will you unload
Golcondas to-morrow?" Which, I need hardly explain, is the slang of
the Stock Exchange for getting rid of undesirable securities. It
struck me as probable that, in the event of the invention turning
out a reality, Cloetedorp A's might become unsaleable within the
next few weeks or so.
He eyed me sternly. "Wentworth," he said, "you're a fool!" (Except
on occasions when he is _very_ angry, my respected connection
_never_ calls me "Wentworth"; the familiar abbreviation,
"Sey"--derived from Seymour--is his usual mode of address to
me in private.) "_Is_ it likely I would unload, and wreck the
confidence of the public in the Cloetedorp Company at such a
moment? As a director--as Chairman--would it be just or right of
me? I ask you, sir, _could_ I reconcile it to my conscience?"
"Charles," I answered, "you are right.
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