The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently he remembered where he was.
"Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially. "They all want your money—particularly Charles. He's the most grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day. It's true. I've got no work and no money."
"John, give him something."
"It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more."
"But give him something. Let him eat it."
John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold.
"Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."
The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off. It made Alice ashamed only to see the attitude of the poor hungry creature, and the abasement of poverty.
"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of the family, until their letters begin to come in. Halloa! Who's this?"