"Well," Melville stammered, "the fact is I wanted to ask you to give me some more money. I—I——"
"But it's not two months since I gave you two hundred and fifty pounds," cried Sir Geoffrey. "What on earth have you done with that?"
Melville was at a loss how to begin the explanation he had invented.
"I've been away," he said lamely, "and ill, and—and it's gone."
"I can quite believe it's gone," said his uncle bitterly. "Money melts before you like pyramids of snow. I wonder you have the face to ask me again."
Melville flushed. He knew that Sir Geoffrey had detected him in one lie, and that in his present state of excitement he would only make matters worse if he faltered in his suddenly improvised story.
"Well, what am I to do?" he asked.
"Do what every other man does," Sir Geoffrey said. "Work, instead of idling about in the club and playing the fiddle—and the fool."
"But I can't get any work," Melville objected.
"What have you tried to do?"