“Then there used to be some biscuits.”
“Biscuits are off. I finished ’em yesterday. Look here, young Renford, what you’d better do is cut across to the shop and get some more cake and some more biscuits, and tell ’em to put it down to me. And don’t be long.”
“A miles better idea would be to send him over to Donaldson’s to fetch something from my study,” suggested Trevor. “It isn’t nearly so far, and I’ve got heaps of stuff.”
“Ripping. Cut over to Donaldson’s, young Renford. As a matter of fact,” he added, confidentially, when the emissary had vanished, “I’m not half sure that the other dodge would have worked. They seem to think at the shop that I’ve had about enough things on tick lately. I haven’t settled up for last term yet. I’ve spent all I’ve got on this study. What do you think of those photographs?”
Trevor got up and inspected them. They filled the mantelpiece and most of the wall above it. They were exclusively theatrical photographs, and of a variety to suit all tastes. For the earnest student of the drama there was Sir Henry Irving in The Bells, and Mr Martin Harvey in The Only Way. For the admirers of the merely beautiful there were Messrs Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell.
“Not bad,” said Trevor. “Beastly waste of money.”
“Waste of money!” Milton was surprised and pained at the criticism. “Why, you must spend your money on something."
“Rot, I call it,” said Trevor. “If you want to collect something, why don’t you collect something worth having?”
Just then Renford came back with the supplies.
“Thanks,” said Milton, “put ’em down. Does the billy boil, young Renford?”