"Depends on what you want it for," said R. Jones, magically genial once more.
The thought entered his mind, as it had so often, that the world was full of easy marks. He wished he could meet the money-lender who had been rash enough to advance the Honorable Freddie five hundred pounds. Those philanthropists cross our path too seldom.
Freddie felt in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, and from it extracted a newspaper clipping.
"Did you read about poor old Percy in the papers? The case, you know?"
"Percy?"
"Lord Stockheath, you know."
"Oh, the Stockheath breach-of-promise case? I did more than that. I was in court all three days." R. Jones emitted a cozy chuckle. "Is he a pal of yours? A cousin, eh? I wish you had seen him in the witness box, with Jellicoe-Smith cross-examining him! The funniest thing I ever heard! And his letters to the girl! They read them out in court; and of all—"
"Don't, old man! Dickie, old top—please! I know all about it. I read the reports. They made poor old Percy look like an absolute ass."
"Well, Nature had done that already; but I'm bound to say they improved on Nature's work. I should think your Cousin Percy must have felt like a plucked chicken."
A spasm of pain passed over the Honorable Freddie's vacant face.
He wriggled in his chair.