PENDLETON. Now look here, Timbrell—
TIMBRELL. Not a word. [To LEONARD.] And I’ve something to say to you before you go.
LEONARD. I’m afraid it’s something nasty.
TIMBRELL. Yes, sir. It’s something nasty. I’ve been making you an allowance at the rate of three hundred a year. It will stop at once.
LEONARD. [Alarmed.] Here! You can’t do that.
TIMBRELL. Can’t I? I will.
LEONARD. But it wouldn’t be cricket. You couldn’t possibly do that. How are we to live without it?
TIMBRELL. That’s your business.
LEONARD. You made me marry Mary. It was the condition—the condition was implied—