"How much is it, dearest? Not very much, eh? Your poor old aunt, you know, is far from rich." As a fact, she hardly knows what to do with her money. "Oh, speak, my dear boy, speak!"
"It is only seven hundred pounds," says Mr. Gower in a voice full of depression. "But rather than ask you to pay it, aunt I would——" He bends downwards.
"Oh, don't!" screams Miss Gower. "For Heaven's sake don't make any more holes!"
"Why not?" says Randal. "We all can die but once!"
"But we can live for a long time yet."
"I can't," says he. "Honour calls me. Naught is left me but to die."
Here he stands up and begins to beat frantically upon the bottom of the boat, as if to make a fresh hole.
"Oh, darling boy, don't! Seven hundred pounds, is it? If that can save us, you shall have it, Randal, you shall indeed!"
"Is that the truth?" says Gower. He seats himself suddenly upon the seat opposite to her, and with a countenance not one whit the less draped in gloom, pulls from his pocket a cheque-book, a pen, and a tiny little ink case.
"I hardly know if there is yet time," says he, "but if you will sign this, I shall do my best to get back to a life that is apparently dear to you, though not"—mournfully—"to me."