He got up, glanced at the whisky-and-soda on the table, then impulsively linked his arm in that of his brother-in-law, all his sullenness gone like a storm-cloud.
"You're quite right, old fellow. I have had as much of that stuff as is good for me. Forgive me for being such a bear. I didn't mean it."
Mordaunt paused. He had never dealt with anyone quite so bewilderingly changeable before. "I wish I knew how to treat you," he said, after a moment.
"Oh, pitch into me! It's the only way." Rupert's smile flashed suddenly upon him. "I've been an ungrateful brute, and I'm ashamed of myself. Seriously, Trevor, I'm sorry. I sometimes think to myself it's downright disgusting the way we all sponge on you. It's deuced good of you to put up with it."
Mordaunt still regarded him with close attention. But there was no doubt in his mind as to the boy's sincerity: he only wondered how long this contrite mood would last.
"I am always willing to help you to the best of my ability," he said. "But I think you might play the game. I can't keep pouring water into a sieve."
"It's not to be expected," Rupert agreed. "And I hate asking you for more money. I'm an absolute cur to do it. But—" he broke off, and pulled his hand free—"for goodness' sake, man, if you can—just this once—"
Mordaunt crossed the room to his writing-table, unlocked a drawer, took out a cheque-book.
"How much?"
"I say, you are a good chap!" Rupert protested. "Can you make it a hundred?"