Sir Algernon, without moving from his lounging posture in the arm-chair, named a sum which made St. Quentin start with indignation.
“You are well aware I can’t pay that, or half it!” he cried.
“Well, don’t, then! I daresay Miss Lisle will be a little less stingy, when she comes of age, and I enquire if she would like the letter published.”
St. Quentin’s hands clenched over one another.
“Don’t be such a fool, old chap,” his companion said, rising and coming close to him. “I don’t really want to be hard upon you. Give me your word you’ll manage the match, and I’ll destroy the letter on the spot, and, what’s more, turn over a new leaf as well. You needn’t be afraid she won’t be happy—I’ll reform when I marry that little girl.”
“Have done with Sydney, please. I’d sooner see her dead than married to you!”
“Pay up, then,” sneered Sir Algernon.
“Can you do nothing for the cottages?”
“We’ve never let the timber go, my boy.”
“Can you do nothing for the cottages?”