"The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now," said he; "English."
"Really?"
"Yes. I floated it. It was my idea. A great success! That's how I
know all about the Hotel Moscow." He looked at the walls again. "I
wanted to do the same here," he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton had
to show that he appreciated this confidence. "But she never would
agree. I've tried her all ways. No go! It's a thousand pities."
"Paying thing, eh?"
"This place? I should say it was! And I ought to be able to judge,
I reckon. Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you'd meet in
a day's march. She's made a lot of money here, a lot of money. And
there's no reason why a place like this shouldn't be five times as
big as it is. Ten times. The scope's unlimited, my dear sir. All
that's wanted is capital. Naturally she has capital of her own,
and she could get more. But then, as she says, she doesn't want
the place any bigger. She says it's now just as big as she can
handle. That isn't so. She's a woman who could handle anything--a
born manager--but even if it was so, all she would have to do
would be to retire--only leave us the place and the name. It's the
name that counts. And she's made the name of Frensham worth
something, I can tell you!"
"Did she get the place from her husband?" asked Peel-Swynnerton.
Pages:
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755