"I can pay my way, my lord."
"Well, I know there was four pounds there, because—— No. Wait a minute. It's all right. I remember I put it in my coat. Which reminds me—I want a couple of stalls at Daly's. You might ring up and get them. How much is the pit?"
"I'm not quite sure, my lord. It used to be half-a-crown."
"Half-a-crown!" cries he. "I thought it was a shilling."
"That's the gallery, my lord."
"Oh, yes. Well, I can't afford the pit, Lyveden, but you can go to the gallery if you like," and he produces a shilling.
I shake my head.
"I'm much obliged to your lordship, but I seldom go out."
"Right-o," he says, with ill-concealed relief. "Don't forget those stalls."
It is pathetic, Toby, but it is true. And when I was at Harrow, his eldest brother, who is one of the best, was my fag.