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?

Marlow.  I was looking for Mr. John, sir.

Barthwick.  What d’ you want Mr. John for?

Marlow. [With hesitation.] I thought I should find him here, sir.

Barthwick. [Suspiciously.] Yes, but what do you want him for?

Marlow. [Offhandedly.] There’s a lady called—­asked to speak to him for a minute, sir.

Barthwick.  A lady, at this time in the morning.  What sort of a lady?

Marlow. [Without expression in his voice.] I can’t tell, sir; no particular sort.  She might be after charity.  She might be a Sister of Mercy, I should think, sir.

Barthwick.  Is she dressed like one?

Marlow.  No, sir, she’s in plain clothes, sir.

Barthwick.  Did n’t she say what she wanted?

Marlow.  No sir.

Barthwick.  Where did you leave her?

Marlow.  In the hall, sir.

Barthwick.  In the hall?  How do you know she’s not a thief—­not got designs on the house?

Marlow.  No, sir, I don’t fancy so, sir.

Barthwick.  Well, show her in here; I’ll see her myself.

[Marlow goes out with a private gesture of dismay.  He soon returns, ushering in a young pale lady with dark eyes and pretty figure, in a modish, black, but rather shabby dress, a black and white trimmed hat with a bunch of Parma violets wrongly placed, and fuzzy-spotted veil.  At the Sight of Mr. Barthwick she exhibits every sign of nervousness.  Marlow goes out.]

Unknown lady.  Oh! but—­I beg pardon there’s some mistake—­I [She turns to fly.]