And again Franks laughed in the key of stage recklessness.
"I should advise a Turkish," said Will, "followed by rhubarb of the same country. You'd feel vastly better next day."
"The remedies," answered Franks, smiling disdainfully, "of one who has never been through moral suffering."
"Yet efficacious, even morally, I can assure you. And, by the bye, I want to know when you're going to finish 'The Slummer.'"
"Finish it? Why, never! I could as soon turn to and build a bridge over the Thames."
"What do you mean? I suppose you have to earn your living?"
"I see no necessity for it. What do I care, whether I live or not?"
"Well, then, I am obliged to ask whether you feel it incumbent upon you—to pay your debts?"
The last words came out with a jerk, after a little pause which proved what it cost Warburton to speak them. To save his countenance, he assumed an unnatural grimness of feature, staring Franks resolutely in the face. And the result was the artist's utter subjugation; he shuffled, dropped his head, made confused efforts to reply.
"Of course I shall do so—somehow," he muttered at length.