"Do you know, Jasper, I could wish that our wash-stand had not a hole cut in it to receive the basin. It sounds hyper-critical. But really it prejudices me in the eyes of the managers. There's a suspicious bulge in the middle of the paper that is damning."
I was absorbed in my own thoughts, and took no notice. Presently he continued—
"Whittington is an overrated character, don't you think? After all he owed his success to his name. It's a great thing for struggling youth to have a three-syllabled name with a proparoxyton accent. I've been listening to the bells to-night and they can make nothing of Loveday, while as for Trenoweth, it's hopeless."
As I still remained silent, Tom proceeded to announce—
"The House will now go into the Question of Supply."
"The Exchequer," I reported, "contains exactly sixteen and eightpence halfpenny."
"Rent having been duly paid to-day and receipt given."
"Receipt given," I echoed.
"Really, when one comes to think of it, the situation is striking. Here are you, Jasper Trenoweth, inheritor of the Great Ruby of Ceylon, besides other treasure too paltry to mention, in danger of starving in a garret. Here am I, Thomas Loveday, author of 'Francesca: a Tragedy,' and other masterpieces too numerous to catalogue, with every prospect of sharing your fate. The situation is striking, Jasper, you'll allow."
"What did the manager say about it?" I asked.