CANTELUPE. [_Imploring comfort._] But should we have held together through
Trebell's bill?
HORSHAM. [_A little impatient._] Perhaps not. But once I had them all round
a table ... Trebell is very keen on office for all his independent airs ...
he and Percival could have argued the thing out. However, it's too late now.
CANTELUPE. Is it?
_For a moment_ HORSHAM _is tempted to indulge in the luxury of
changing his mind; but he puts Satan behind him with a shake of the
head._
HORSHAM. Well, you see ... Percival I can't do without. Now that
Blackborough knows of his objections to the finance he'd go to him and take
Chisholm and offer to back them up. I know he would ... he didn't take
Farrant away with him for nothing. [_Then he flashes out rather shrilly._]
It's Trebell's own fault. He ought not to have committed himself definitely
to any scheme until he was safely in office. I warned him about Percival ...
I warned him not to be explicit. One cannot work with men who will make up
their minds prematurely. No, I shall not change my mind. I shall write to
him.
_He goes firmly to his writing desk leaving_ CANTELUPE _forlorn._
CANTELUPE. What about a messenger?
HORSHAM. Not at this time of night. I'll post it.
CANTELUPE. I'll post it as I go.
_He seeks comfort again in the piano and this time starts to play,
with one finger and some hesitation, the first bars of a Bach fugue_,
HORSHAM'S _pen-nib is disappointing him and the letter is not easy to
phrase.
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