"A nice round sum," said John.
Mr. Carmody did not share his nephew's views as to what constituted niceness and roundness in a sum of money, but he did not say so. He sighed deeply and drew his cheque book from its drawer. He supposed in a vague sort of way that he ought to be feeling grateful to the young man for not heaping him with reproaches and recrimination, but the agony of what he was about to do prevented any such emotion. All he could feel was that dull, aching sensation which comes to most of us when we sit down to write cheques for the benefit of others.
It was as if some malignant fate had brooded over him, he felt, ever since this business had started. From the very first, life had been one long series of disbursements. All the expense of entertaining the Molloy family, not to mention the unspeakable Ronnie Fish.... The car going to and fro between Healthward Ho and Rudge at six shillings per trip.... The five hundred pounds he had had to pay to get Hugo out of the house.... And now this appalling, devastating sum for which he had just begun to write his cheque. Money going out all the time! Money ... money ... money ... And all for nothing!
He blotted the cheque and held it out.
"Don't give it to me," said John. "You're coming with me now to Colonel Wyvern's house, to hand it to him in person with a neat little speech."
"I shan't know what to say."
"I'll tell you."
"Very well."
"And after that," said John, "you and he are going to be like two love-birds." He thumped the desk. "Do you understand? Love-birds."
"Very well."