“I wish you’d go and have your long talk with the parson,” she said impatiently.
“It would be so easy for you to give me a little help,” he pleaded.
“It would be so easy for you to ’smash up’ my reputation with the parson,” she rejoined.
“You never used to be close-fisted. It’s incomprehensible that you should refuse me a little help. Look. I’m willing to be more than fair. Give me a hundred pounds, a bare little hundred pounds, and I’ll send you a lovely picture.”
“Thank you, I don’t want a picture.”
“You won’t give me a hundred pounds—a beggarly hundred pounds?” He looked incredulous.
“I won’t give you a farthing.”
“Well, then, by God, you jade,” he cried, springing to his feet, his face crimson, “by God, I’ll make you. I swear I’ll ruin you. Look out!”
“Are you really going at last?” she asked brightly.
“No, I’m not going till it suits my pleasure. You’ve got a sort of bastard cousin staying here with you, I’m told,” he answered.