And now, to think of something labeled mine suddenly changing its label to yours—to think of that cramped auxiliary hand of hers forced to detach two or three hundred yen from the darling accumulation, to receive nothing in return except a dirty little forgotten slip of paper, made Olga’s heart swell with helpless fury. Yet still her smile corked up the ferment within her.
“I could give,” said Isaev, slowly, “one hundred and fifty yens today and, after not many months, perhaps, a hundred other yens. More than two hundred and fifty yens not.”
These words hardly seemed to Wilfred to make sense at all. Forgetting for a moment that he was a heavenly messenger, he wondered how the old frog could not understand that eventual repayment was not—from Wilfred’s point of view—repayment at all; that money handed over to the Malinins when Wilfred should be not there but in Shanghai, perhaps—London, perhaps—Timbuktu, perhaps—might just as well be peanut-shells, for all the good it would do to the principal in the case—Wilfred Chew.
“My dear Mr. Isaev,” said Wilfred, licking his gold tooth between puckered lips, “let us talk sense, please. You are not now buying a pianola on the instalment plan; you are returning to an investor his capital, with the interest due. Due, I repeat, that is to say, to be paid now. It is not a matter of next year or some time. Here I have a little piece of paper which it is to your interest to redeem. The moment my client’s money is in my hands I give you this piece of paper. You burn it. You are free of debt. You snap your fingers on the nose of the world. If you do not choose to hand over the money, I replace the little piece of paper in my pocket and have recourse to the law. I am a lawyer, your friend as well as Mr. Malinin’s, and I assure you that you will have to pay in the end. Well, why not now? Why this undignified haggling? As I said before, Mr. Malinin would adjust his convenience to yours to the point of suggesting a round sum—four hundred yen—instead of his exact rights. This sum I should take the responsibility of accepting on his behalf, but—”
“I should—I advise—I accept” Olga archly mimicked him. Just as the work of a camera is, some think, a glance from the evil eye, so this sweet vehement parody of Wilfred’s voice seemed like the subtle curse of an evil tongue. “Mr. Chew, it is not our friend Sergei Dmitrivitch which speaks; it is you; it is you that wish to take the money from poor us; it is you that speaks—that has power to arrange how much. Sergei Dmitrivitch is many far miles away from us—”
Isaev interrupted her; “Da-da-da, Olga, he speaks. Why should he not speak? He is friend of Sergei Dmitrivitch—he speaks for him. Sergei Dmitrivitch is our friend. I hope then Mr. Chew will be so kind to be our friend, too. Mr. Chew, please think—like our friend—like Sergei Dmitrivitch’s friend—how this matter can be finished. I treat you like friend. You are my guest here—my friend. As long as you stay here—two day—three day—I charge nothing. You are a friend.”
“It is most hospitable of you,” said Wilfred, rather frostily. “But on second thoughts, when we have settled this business I think I will not stay in Seoul. If we can reach the bank before it closes, I feel I ought to take tonight’s train back to Mi-san.”
Isaev’s face was quite animated now. He was like a pyramid tipped with sunrise.
“Well, whether yes or no, I invite you like friend. If you speak no, still remember my hospitality has money value and what I offer to friend I do not take back. One week in my hotel I offer—one week, I think, twenty-five yens. See, I make you my guest if you go away—if you stay—it is all the same—you are my guest and friend.” He laid twenty-five yen on the table beside him. “We shall better finish this matter now because the bank will shut door. Did you speak two hundred and seventy-five yens?”
“My dear Mr. Isaev, I did not. On the contrary. You misheard me. I may have mentioned the sum of three hundred and seventy-five yen. This would I think be a reasonable compromise.”
“Oi-oi! Mr. Chew—remember how rich Sergei Dmitrivitch will be soon; he has now very rich son, married to that bitch. Plenty money—I think Pavel Nicholaievitch pay plenty money to have his daughter married at last. Sergei Dmitrivitch—now so rich—will not be made angry by little matters. Fifty yen more—fifty yen less—it is nothing to a man whose daughter is rich bitch. I also am business man—I am not made angry by small matters. If you come to bank now, I give you three hundred and twenty-five yens—thus all are glad—all are still friends.”
Isaev got up. Wilfred got up. Olga remained sitting on the arm of Isaev’s chair, her fine eyes fixed on the two ten-yen notes and the five-yen note on the table. Wilfred, his affectedly wandering attention having been recalled by a murmur from Isaev, picked up these notes with a polite embarrassed laugh and, after flipping them about in the air for a moment to show that they were entirely irrelevant—in fact, nothing at all—put them in his pocket. Olga’s eyes were thus released from their spell. She looked wildly round the room for a minute and then followed the two men to
