“I must—I cannot remain.”
“Why?”
“I’ve already told you. I’m ruined.”
“Ruined—good God—you’re joking! But even if you are—confound it—why should you go? Other men have got on their legs again.”
“I never shall,” Trethowen replied sadly. “It’s impossible.”
“If you’ll tell us about it,” said the artist persuasively, “we can judge for ourselves.”
“Well, briefly told, the facts are these, old fellow. You are aware I’m only the younger son, and that on my father’s death my elder brother, Douglas, with whom I’ve not been on friendly terms for several years, succeeded to the estate.”
The other nodded acquiescence.
“My father undoubtedly meant well,” Hugh continued, “for he left me some property yielding nearly five hundred a year. Upon this I lived for five years, but—”
“And what more could you expect?” interrupted his friend. “Surely that’s enough for a bachelor to live upon?”