Yardsley (mockingly). You have my secret, John Barlow. Remember that it was wrung from me in confidence. You must not betray me. Turn your back while I surreptitiously remove the piano and the gas-fixtures, won’t you?
Barlow (looking at him thoughtfully). Yardsley, I have done you an injustice.
Yardsley. Indeed?
Barlow. Yes. Some one claimed, at the club, the other day, that you were the biggest donkey in existence, and I denied it. I was wrong, old man, I was wrong, and I apologize. You are.
Yardsley. You are too modest, Jack. You forget—yourself.
Barlow. Well, perhaps I do; but I’ve nothing to conceal, and you have. You’ve been behaving in a most incomprehensible fashion this afternoon, as if you owned the house.
Yardsley. Well, what of it? Do you own it?
Barlow. No, I don’t, but—
Yardsley. But you hope to. Well, I have no such mercenary motive. I’m not after the house.
Barlow (bristling up). After the house? Mercenary motive? I demand an explanation of those words. What do you mean?