'You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.'
The scene was Uncle Arthur's 'den.'
Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought up to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper home, with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He resented them all.
Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always scowling a little.
His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged version of Henry's extraordinary outbursts:—
'This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are advised that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand dollars?'
'Yes. He will.'
'And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your mother's money for the purpose?'
'Well, I'll be twenty-one anyway in less'n two months. But that ain't—isn't—it exactly, not all of it. I've really got to have the whole three thousand.'
'Oh, you have?'