“Ten guineas now, and the same sum quarterly, as long as the young lady lives in this town, and you never persecute her by word or letter.”
“That is forty guineas a year. I can’t live upon it.”
“You will cost less in the House of Correction, Mr. Darvil.”
“Come, make it a hundred: Alley is cheap at that.”
“Not a farthing more,” said the banker, buttoning up his breeches pockets with a determined air.
“Well, out with the shiners.”
“Do you promise or not?”
“I promise.”
“There are your ten guineas. If in half an hour you are not gone—why, then—”
“Then?”