'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord permits.'
'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer. Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay. Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'
'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written under a misapprehension.'
'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'
The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'
Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof, no doubt, of this assertion?'
'Certainly.'
'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall be the first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musical instruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs, Sir?'
'My word, first.'
'Ta—ta—ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself. What next?'