The boy looks frightened.
“Who’ll pay for this here settin’-up, sir, please, if proof ain’t to be used?”
“Did you say Fanshawe?” says Lord Southwold. “Do you mean the great Fanshawe of the Torch? Can anything be possibly too strong for him?”
“Oh, my dear Wilfred! do let us hear what you can have said? It must be something terrific!” says the old duke, who rather likes subversive opinions, considering philosophically that he will be in his grave before they can possibly be put into practice.
“What ’m I to tell the manager about payin’ for the settin’-up of this here, if type’s to be broke up, sir?” asks the boy, with dogged persistence.
“Go out of the room, you impudent little rascal!” says Bertram, in extreme irritation. “Critchett! turn that boy out!”
Marlow gets up and offers the boy a plate of pound cake.
“You are not civil to your sooty Mercury, Bertram. He offers you at this moment the most opportune illustration of your theories. He comes on an errand of the intellect, and if a somewhat soiled messenger, he should nevertheless be treated with the respect due to a guardian of literary purity and public morality. Sweet imp! refresh your inner man!”
The boy stuffs his mouth with cake and grins.
“Are these chambers mine or yours, Lord Marlow?” asks Bertram.