SIR F. Come, I like that!
ARTH. Do you? It’s more than I do—unless, he said, he saw some urgent necessity for it; but that if I married without his consent he’d disinherit me.
SIR F. Is that all?
ARTH. All! It strikes me as being quite enough. No, it isn’t all—it’s only half, for Myrtle—
SIR F. (cutting him short). Never mind Myrtle; I know all about her. She thinks you a bit of a milksop—s—so do I; that you’ve no energy—not an atom! no will of your own—never had! and that in order to reinstate yourself in her good opinion you must do something desperate! So you shall! Now what do you mean to do?
ARTH. Show a proper spirit, and—run away!
SIR F. Run away! Certainly not—fling yourself into my arms and I’ll pull you through! So cheer up!
ARTH. It’s very easy to say “cheer up” to a fellow who feels himself between two stools, with the certainty of coming down a cropper!
SIR F. But what’s the use of giving you advice? You’d never follow it! You haven’t the pluck to do anything desperate!
ARTH. I told uncle I would! But I’m not going to make away with myself merely to prove that I’m a man of my word!