"Will that settle everything?" Mordaunt asked.
"Oh, well—practically everything."
Mordaunt wrote the cheque in silence. He handed it over his shoulder finally to the boy behind him.
"It's for a hundred and fifty. I hope that will see you through. And look here, Rupert, do for Heaven's sake pull up and keep within bounds. I am quite willing to help you to a reasonable extent, but you must do your part, too. You are living at an insane rate. Do you keep an account of your expenditure?"
"Of course I don't!" Rupert seemed astonished at the question. "What on earth would be the good of that? It wouldn't reduce my expenses."
Mordaunt laid his cheque-book back in the drawer. "And you think you would make a good bailiff?" he said.
"Oh, that's different. Of course, you must have accounts for the management of an estate. You would have no cause to complain of me there. Are you going to think it over, I say?"
Mordaunt turned in his chair. "You really wish me to do so?"
"Rather!" Rupert spoke with enthusiasm. "If you knew how deadly sick I am of the life I live now!" he added, with strong disgust. "It's beastly hard work, too, in a sense, and nothing to show for it."
"I should work you hard myself," Mordaunt observed.