The piece of toast rising to Mr. Marrapit's mouth slowly returned towards his plate: “Reiterate that. From me?”
“From you,” said George.
The toast dropped from trembling fingers. “I?” Mr. Marrapit dragged the word to tremendous length. “I? Is it conceivable that you expect money from me?”
“I only ask.”
“I only shudder. Might I inquire the amount?”
“The Dean told me of a practice I could have for 400 pounds.”
“Tea!” exclaimed Mr. Marrapit on a gasp. “I must steady myself! Tea!” He paused; gulped a cup; with alarmed eyes stared at George.
The affair was going no better than George had expected. He remembered the face that was dear to him; nerved himself to continue. “I would pay it back,” he said. “Will you lend me the 400 pounds?”
“I must have air!” Mr. Marrapit staggered to the window. “I reel before this sudden assault. For nine years at ruinous cost I have supported you. Must I sell my house? Am I never to be free? Must I totter always through life with you upon my bowed back? I am Sinbad.”
“There's no need to exaggerate or make a scene.”