Debt
The scene is a conservatory built and decorated in Moorish style, in the house of the Rt. Hon. Sir Julian Twombley, M.P., Chesterfield Gardens, London. A fountain is playing, and tall palms lend their simple elegance to the elaborate Algerian magnificence of the place. The drawing-rooms are just beyond the curtained entrances. It is a May afternoon.
Brooke Twombley, a good-looking but insipid young man of about two-and-twenty, faultlessly dressed for the afternoon, enters, and sits dejectedly, turning over some papers.
Brooke Twombley.
I’ve done it. Such an afternoon’s work—what! [Reading.] “Schedule of the Debts of Mr. Brooke Twombley. [Turning over sheet after sheet.] Tradesmen. Betting Transactions. Baccarat. Miscellaneous Amusements. Sundries. Extras.”
[Probyn, a servant in powder and livery, is crossing the conservatory, when he sees Brooke.]
Probyn.
Oh, Mr. Brooke.
Brooke Twombley.
[Slipping the schedule into his pocket.] Eh!