“Well—well?” irritably.
“I can’t explain, uncle, if you don’t give me a chance.”
Another grunt.
“Jimmie—I mean Staples—wanted to give his girl a ring before he went back. He hadn’t enough money—so I lent him fifty pounds.”
Mr. Reiss drops his glasses, gets up from his chair, and stands before the fire, facing his nephew.
“So you lent him fifty pounds, did you? A third of your annual allowance. You had no business to—and if Captain Whatever’s-his-name were a respectable man, he would have saved the money to pay for the ring. Instead of that I have to pay for it.”
“Oh no, uncle.”
“How d’you mean—‘no, uncle’? Aren’t you asking me for money? It’s always the same story with the lot of you. You like to be generous at other people’s expense. I’ve told you I’m a ruined man. The fortune which was the result of my hard work all my life has disappeared. I’m a poor man. I spend nothing on myself. I’ve given up my car. I’ve put down everything. I’m trying to dispose of my pictures and to sell the lease of this place. You don’t seem to understand what this infernal war means to people like myself. You don’t have to pay for it. Do you realize that one-third of my entire income goes for income tax? I’ve paid your bills over and over again, but I can’t do it any more. For this once I’ll—” The boy holds up his hand.
“Look here, uncle. I’d better tell you at once. I shall need another fifty to make me square. But I’ll pay you back—on my honour—”
“Bah! Your honour! Pay me back. I know what that means. So it’s a hundred pounds you want. Very well. You shall have your hundred pounds. But I solemnly warn you that it’s the last penny I intend to pay for your extravagance. As for that waster of a Captain What’s-his—”