reckoning his gains and losses. The gains were substantial, for St. Denis had at last promised him an introduction to the house-master of his old house at Eton, and had manifested adequate interest in little Ben jamin. Moreover, St. Denis himself was an agreeable fellow. He would make no fuss if, after Benjamin was safely entered for Eton, Joseph quietly withdrew from his directorship.
For Joseph had no intention of letting this business cost him very much more. Already, one way and another, he had spent upon it six hundred and thirty-seven pounds, twelve shillings and eightpence, and while he was prepared to spend far more for Benjamin's sake, he had no wish to throw away his money. Five hundred pounds he had sub scribed to the company, one hundred and six pounds he had spent at Mitchell's, unobtrusively clearing St. Denis's account and restoring his diminished credit. The rest had gone on luncheons, drinks and taxis. It was enough.
The company, of course, was in itself a farce. The honorary secretary saw herself as an alluring combination of Sir Oswald Stoll and Josephine Butler, a great financial power whose influence purified British entertainments. She wanted to be rich as much as anyone; but from practical experience she knew that it was far easier to distribute uplift than divi dends among mankind. It was easier to Do Good than to Make Money. Joseph's five hundred pounds and the small investments of the other directors had evaporated upon office equipment, printing and advertisement, and although public opinion might have derived education from the result, the company had certainly derived no substantial pecuniary benefit.
Still, there it was, and there was the Board assembled at five o'clock in the afternoon, waiting to begin a meeting. St. Denis sat at the head of the table, acting his part as chair man with ironic exaggeration. One of the amusements of a business career lay in the opportunity for dressing-up. St. Denis as the Complete Business Man, in a morning coat and striped trousers, his sleek fair hair brushed back, and a gar denia in his buttonhole, was a glorious sight.
On his left sat Hugh Macafee, inventor of the Tona Per fecta Talking Film, a gauche, raw-boned, sullen young Scot, his gaunt face thrust down on to his roughened fists, his badly fitting Norfolk jacket hunched up round his ears. Macafee had a grievance, and Joseph Isenbaum was not at all sure that in Macafee's place he would not have had a grievance too. For the other directors might find the company one incident among many in their lives, but the Tona Perfecta Film meant everything to Macafee. He had worked for it and starved for it and dreamed of it, and had, Joseph con sidered, a right to sell it in the best market. If he were wise, he would break away from Johnson's clutches and get clear of the company. Once or twice Joseph had been tempted to tell him so. But after all, was it his business? He was a director of the company. The Tona Perfecta was its sole substantial asset. What right had he to play a double game with Macafee? Far better leave well alone. After all, even Macafee was not a child.
He turned from Macafee to John Fry Fox Guerdon, the Quaker director, an unhappy, timid, middle-aged bachelor, with a long egg-shaped head, very bald and highly polished. A semicircle of white hair fringed his oval skull; small sur prised tufts of white hair jutted from his eyes and eyebrows. He twitched his long nose and blinked disconsolately through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, alarmed at every manifestation of activity on the part of his fellow-directors, ill at ease in the proximity of Johnson, and obviously only remaining upon the Board because his family tradition impelled him to good works, and St. Denis had persuaded him that this was a noble cause.
Poor Guerdon, thought Joseph, forced by his principles to associate with a brigand like Johnson. For if ever villainy was writ large upon a man's countenance, that man was Clifton Roderick
For Joseph had no intention of letting this business cost him very much more. Already, one way and another, he had spent upon it six hundred and thirty-seven pounds, twelve shillings and eightpence, and while he was prepared to spend far more for Benjamin's sake, he had no wish to throw away his money. Five hundred pounds he had sub scribed to the company, one hundred and six pounds he had spent at Mitchell's, unobtrusively clearing St. Denis's account and restoring his diminished credit. The rest had gone on luncheons, drinks and taxis. It was enough.
The company, of course, was in itself a farce. The honorary secretary saw herself as an alluring combination of Sir Oswald Stoll and Josephine Butler, a great financial power whose influence purified British entertainments. She wanted to be rich as much as anyone; but from practical experience she knew that it was far easier to distribute uplift than divi dends among mankind. It was easier to Do Good than to Make Money. Joseph's five hundred pounds and the small investments of the other directors had evaporated upon office equipment, printing and advertisement, and although public opinion might have derived education from the result, the company had certainly derived no substantial pecuniary benefit.
Still, there it was, and there was the Board assembled at five o'clock in the afternoon, waiting to begin a meeting. St. Denis sat at the head of the table, acting his part as chair man with ironic exaggeration. One of the amusements of a business career lay in the opportunity for dressing-up. St. Denis as the Complete Business Man, in a morning coat and striped trousers, his sleek fair hair brushed back, and a gar denia in his buttonhole, was a glorious sight.
On his left sat Hugh Macafee, inventor of the Tona Per fecta Talking Film, a gauche, raw-boned, sullen young Scot, his gaunt face thrust down on to his roughened fists, his badly fitting Norfolk jacket hunched up round his ears. Macafee had a grievance, and Joseph Isenbaum was not at all sure that in Macafee's place he would not have had a grievance too. For the other directors might find the company one incident among many in their lives, but the Tona Perfecta Film meant everything to Macafee. He had worked for it and starved for it and dreamed of it, and had, Joseph con sidered, a right to sell it in the best market. If he were wise, he would break away from Johnson's clutches and get clear of the company. Once or twice Joseph had been tempted to tell him so. But after all, was it his business? He was a director of the company. The Tona Perfecta was its sole substantial asset. What right had he to play a double game with Macafee? Far better leave well alone. After all, even Macafee was not a child.
He turned from Macafee to John Fry Fox Guerdon, the Quaker director, an unhappy, timid, middle-aged bachelor, with a long egg-shaped head, very bald and highly polished. A semicircle of white hair fringed his oval skull; small sur prised tufts of white hair jutted from his eyes and eyebrows. He twitched his long nose and blinked disconsolately through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, alarmed at every manifestation of activity on the part of his fellow-directors, ill at ease in the proximity of Johnson, and obviously only remaining upon the Board because his family tradition impelled him to good works, and St. Denis had persuaded him that this was a noble cause.
Poor Guerdon, thought Joseph, forced by his principles to associate with a brigand like Johnson. For if ever villainy was writ large upon a man's countenance, that man was Clifton Roderick
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