He let the young man go, for Rees Pennant’s outburst of anger had already given place to sullen passivity, and he had thrown himself limply into a chair. Goodhare took a seat beside him.
“Listen,” he said, “I have something to say to you. You know that we have come to the end of our money?” Rees nodded. “And of our credit?” Rees nodded again. “That at present there are no more new clothes to wear, horses to ride, evenings at the theater, suppers afterwards, trips to Paris, and the rest of it?”
“Well, of course, I know it. Hasn’t every caller been a dun, and every letter a bill, for weeks past?”
“Quite so. Now the question is, whether you want any more of those past pleasures, or whether you would prefer to set to work as a clerk on twenty shillings a week, or to creep back to Carstow, and live on the charity of your younger brothers?”
Rees writhed.
“Out with it. What do you want me to do? You know you have made work impossible to me; quiet life in the country insupportable. What have I got to do?”
“Well, I suppose you know that, in the straits we are in, one mustn’t be too particular.”
“I can’t be a lower rascal than I showed myself this morning. Go on.”
“Put on your hat, button up your overcoat, and come out.”
“Out! What, in this fog, that’s almost blinding even indoors?”