“Well, no more Frühlingsrauschen, then. What about the Barcarolle? Offenbach’s, I mean. Any objection to that?”
“Yes. Will you be good enough to understand that you’re not to bang on that piano again.”
“Oh, you mean it? I thought it was just your fun, uncle. But I like the piano. Surely you’ll let me use it sometimes.”
“No. I’ve had enough of it.”
“But . . .”
Roger’s face had been darkening.
“That’s enough! I’ve more important things to talk to you about. What age are you nowadays? Twenty-two or twenty-three, isn’t it? And you’ve never done a stroke of work in your life, so far? A pretty record, isn’t it?”
He paused, and paced over to the window and back again.
“That’s got to stop. I’ve had to support one loafer—your Uncle Ernest. But if you imagine that I have a fad for collecting loafers, you’re mistaken. I’ve got your uncle on my hands permanently, I suppose; but I don’t propose to increase my stock of parasites for your benefit. You’ll have to find something to do. I’m not going to let you hang around Whistlefield for ever.”
Arthur’s good-natured face had darkened in its turn.