"Will you kindly leave the room at once?" I roared.
"I was afraid this might happen," he answered, "so we made a few inquiries and took precautions. There are such things, Mr. Arbuthnot, as unpaid Oxford debts, eh? And tradesmen are sometimes so distrustful as to sell those debts. Now, here's a tailor's bill—dear me, where's the schedule? Yes, a tailor's bill for £57 odd."
"What on earth do you mean?" I said.
"And you can have all these bills and a little ready money," he went on, "if you'd only be reasonable."
"Get out!" I exclaimed again.
"Do be reasonable, Mr. Arbuthnot," he purred on, "or otherwise I may be compelled to follow my instructions and sue, and—I regret to say it—sell you up, and prevent your inhabiting this delightful little flat any longer."
"I give you just one minute," I said, taking out my watch.
"Oh, very well, very well," he answered; "a gold watch—I must remember that."
I sat down and cursed that elderly spinster. The position was quite delightful. Those bills, as far as I remembered them, amounted to something over £300; and, if my uncle discovered their existence, my prospects of a partnership, and probably even my allowance, would be at an end. Never having been at a university himself, he held strong views on the subject of getting into debt. That evening the piano played again, and I went up to explain Miss Ormerod's difficulties as usual. With dramatic irony, they concerned the sale of goods.
Borrowing the money was out of the question, and I resolved desperately to allow the law to take its course, and to spend the few remaining days in Miss Ormerod's company as far as I could. Our legal discussions, and sometimes our discussions on other things, became more protracted, but the time went swiftly, and in the course of a fortnight or so there was a man in possession. Probably if that elderly spinster had been gifted with any capacity for sitting tight, I should now be in South Africa, but as I sat burning my letters preparatory to the sale, Miss Ormerod burst in.