Son. But I have had some difficulty in scraping up enough to pay you.
Father. Surely, eighteen shillings a-week is a reasonable sum for an apartment, however small, in Mayfair?
Son. I do not deny it; still it seems hard that I should be mulcted to that extent some fifty times a-year.
Father. I cannot see the hardship, nor the money!
Son. If you really want it, it is here.
[Produces a pocket-book, from which he takes sufficient change to satisfy the claim.
Father (pocketing coin). Thank you; and now we may say, adieu!
Son. But how about dinner—am I not to dine with you?
Father. Dine with me! What an idea! Why should you?