Somewhat later on the same afternoon, in the drawing-room of the house opposite, Josephus Ilam was drinking tea with his mother. The aged Mrs. Ilam, who was very thin and not in the least tall—her son would have made a dozen of her—sat tremendously upright in her chair, while Josephus lolled his great bulk in angry attitudes on a sofa, near which the tea-table had been placed. Mrs. Ilam wore widow’s weeds, though it was many years since she had lost her husband, a man who had made a vast fortune out of soda-water—in the days when soda-water was soda-water. She had a narrow, hard face, with intensely black eyes, and intensely white hair, and when she directed those eyes upon her son, it became instantly plain that her son was at once her idol and her slave. She lived solely for this man of fifty, who had scarcely ever left her side. For her this mass of fifteen stone four was still a young child, needing watchful care and constant advice. Certainly she spoilt him; but, just as certainly, he went in awe of her. The fact that by judicious investments in hotel and public-house property he had more than doubled the fortune which his father left, did not at all improve his standing with the antique dame; it only made him in her view a clever boy with financial leanings. Moreover, every penny of the Ilam fortune was legally hers during her lifetime. Even Ilam’s share in the City of Pleasure was hers. When Carpentaria had discovered him, he had had to decide whether or not he should put more than a million pounds into the enterprise, and it was his mother who decided, who listened to everything, and then briefly told him that he would be a fool to leave the thing alone.

“Well,” she said, in her high quavering voice, as she passed him a cup of tea—the cup rattled on the saucer in her blue-veined parchment hand—“so you are not getting on with Carpentaria? I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“He won’t listen to reason about the advertisements,” said Ilam crossly, stirring his tea.

“No?”

“And he’s absolutely mad about his music. He’s spent ten hours in rehearsing these last two days. All the work, I’ve had to do myself.”

“Indeed!”

“And then, to crown his exploits, he takes me up in the balloon, mother—wastes a solid hour.”

“In the balloon!”

Ilam recounted the incident of the balloon.

“And, after all, he lets that impudent journalist go free—absolutely free!”

“Jos,” said his mother, “it’s a wonder you’re alive, my dear.”

“It’s a pity Carpentaria’s alive,” rejoined Ilam.

His mother’s burning eyes met his.

“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” she piped calmly.

Her son’s gaze dropped.

“Since when?”

“Since you began grumbling about him, last week but one, my pet.”

“He’s no use now,” Ilam grumbled. “We’ve carried out all his ideas, and it’s simply a matter of business, and Carpentaria doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘business.’ Just think of his argument about those ads.!”

“Never mind that, Jos,” Mrs. Ilam put in.

“He’s only in the way now,” Jos proceeded gloomily.

“I suppose he wouldn’t retire,” Mrs. Ilam suggested.

“Retire? Of course he wouldn’t retire—nothing would induce him to retire. He enjoys it—he enjoys annoying me.”

“Anyway,” said the mother, “you’ll have the satisfaction of a very great success.”

She looked out of the window at the gardens.

“Yes,” growled Ilam. “And he gets half the profits. I’ve found all the money, and he hasn’t found a cent. But he gets half the profits. What for? A few ideas—nothing else. He pretends to direct, but he’ll direct nothing except his blessed band. And I reckon we shall clear a profit of ten thousand a week! Half of ten is five.”

“He only gets half the profits as long as he lives, Jos,” said Mrs. Ilam. “After that—nothing.”

“Nothing,” agreed Jos, biting cruelly into a hot scone. “But as long as he lives he’s costing me, say, five thousand a week, besides worry.”

“He mayn’t live long,” Mrs. Ilam ventured. “No, but he may live fifty-years.”

“Supposing he died very suddenly, Jos,” Mrs. Ilam pursued calmly; “he wouldn’t be the first person that was inconvenient to you who had disappeared unexpectedly.”

“Mother!” Ilam almost shouted, starting up. “But would he?” Mrs. Ilam persisted.

“No, he wouldn’t,” muttered Josephus, and his voice trembled.

Mrs. Ilam blew out the spirit-lamp under the kettle as though she was blowing out Carpentaria. “I’m off,” said Josephus nervously.

“Wait a moment, child. Ring the bell for me.” A servant entered.

“Bring me your master’s knitted waistcoat,” said Mrs. Ilam.

“But, mother, I shan’t want it.”

“Yes, you will, Jos. There’s no month more treacherous than May. You’ll put it on to please me.”

He obeyed, bent down to kiss his terrible parent, and departed.

“Think it over,” she called out after him.

Ilam stopped.

“And then, what about his sister?” he said. “Don’t mix up two quite separate things,” Mrs. Ilam responded. “Besides, she isn’t his sister.”