Barthwick. [Replacing in the envelope the letter and the cheque.] Much good that would have done him in a court of law.

     [He stops as jack comes in, fastening his waistcoat and
     staunching a razor cut upon his chin.]

Jack. [Sitting down between them, and speaking with an artificial joviality.] Sorry I ’m late. [He looks lugubriously at the dishes.] Tea, please, mother.  Any letters for me? [Barthwick hands the letter to him.] But look here, I say, this has been opened!  I do wish you would n’t——­

Barthwick. [Touching the envelope.] I suppose I ’m entitled to this name.

Jack. [Sulkily.] Well, I can’t help having your name, father! [He reads the letter, and mutters.] Brutes!

Barthwick. [Eyeing him.] You don’t deserve to be so well out of that.

Jack.  Haven’t you ragged me enough, dad?

Mrs. Barthwick.  Yes, John, let Jack have his breakfast.

Barthwick.  If you hadn’t had me to come to, where would you have been?  It’s the merest accident—­suppose you had been the son of a poor man or a clerk.  Obtaining money with a cheque you knew your bank could not meet.  It might have ruined you for life.  I can’t see what’s to become of you if these are your principles.  I never did anything of the sort myself.

Jack.  I expect you always had lots of money.  If you’ve got plenty of money, of course——­

Barthwick.  On the contrary, I had not your advantages.  My father kept me very short of money.

Jack.  How much had you, dad?

Barthwick.  It’s not material.  The question is, do you feel the gravity of what you did?

Jack.  I don’t know about the gravity.  Of course, I ’m very sorry if you think it was wrong.  Have n’t I said so!  I should never have done it at all if I had n’t been so jolly hard up.

Barthwick.  How much of that forty pounds have you got left, Jack?

Jack. [Hesitating.] I don’t know—­not much.

Barthwick.  How much?

Jack. [Desperately.] I have n’t got any.

Barthwick.  What?

Jack.  I know I ’ve got the most beastly headache.

     [He leans his head on his hand.]

Mrs. Barthwick.  Headache?  My dear boy!  Can’t you eat any breakfast?

Jack. [Drawing in his breath.] Too jolly bad!

Mrs. Barthwick.  I’m so sorry.  Come with me; dear; I’ll give you something that will take it away at once.

[They leave the room; and Barthwick, tearing up the letter, goes to the fireplace and puts the pieces in the fire.  While he is doing this Marlow comes in, and looking round him, is about quietly to withdraw.]

Barthwick.  What’s that?  What d ’you want?