He said nothing of all this, however, to Jack Jardine when he raged for a full hour over his father's absolute lack of human sympathy.
"Why only yesterday," he stormed, "he signed a cheque for one thousand pounds because he wanted to pose as the patron of these dispossessed parsons. It isn't moral, it isn't Christian. He doesn't care if he ruins me body and soul. Anyhow, I've done with him for ever."
"Then you will leave at once?" suggested Jack Jardine.
In truth he was anxious to get the young man away from temptation as soon as possible, and he knew well that in the end he himself would have somehow or another to negotiate the money for the majority.
"No," replied Marmaduke. "I'm going to stop on for a bit."
And he set his nether lip hard. He was not going to give a cheek to the enemy. He meant to hit back if he could. If his father couldn't spare two thousand pounds because he wanted to spend it on a dancing woman, he might find himself in the position of not having the dancing woman on whom to spend it. He, Marmaduke, would have a try at it, anyhow. It was mean and horrible, of course, but so was the old man. He began it.
Peter Muir, coming in yawning, exclaimed at his brother's face.
"What's up, Duke?" he asked. "You look in the devil of a temper."
"So I am," retorted Duke. "And so would you be if you had the spunk to ask anything of the baron. But you haven't, you see."
"Phew!" said Peter. "So you've been attacking the money bags. I could have told you it was no go. That's why I learnt picquet of that Italian count the governor got hold of last year and sent about his business when he had rooked him of a thou! Now I can get a guinea or two off everybody who comes in to the house--except you, Jack. You never will play."