"Quite possibly." He went on writing unconcernedly.
"And you've no idea of what 'tis about? Dick is very strange. He hardly listens to what one has to say, and fidget—Lord!"
"Ah!"
"I think he looks ill, an' 'pon my soul, so does Lavvy! Do you suppose there is aught amiss?"
"I really have no idea. Pray do not let me detain you."
Andrew hoisted himself out of his chair.
"Oh, I'm not staying, never fear! ... I suppose you cannot oblige me with—say—fifty guineas?"
"I should be loth to upset your suppositions," replied his Grace sweetly.
"You will not? Well, I didn't think you would somehow! But I wish you might contrive to let me have it, Tracy. I've had prodigious ill-luck of late, and the Lord knows 'tis not much I get from you! I don't want to ask Dick again."
"I should not let the performance grow monotonous, certainly," agreed the other. "Fifty, you said?"