“I’ve come down with young Killigrew,” he said. “He offered to pay my expenses. So I thought I’d look you up, to see how married bliss looks. Hey, Tom? How’s the wife? Hey, Tom? How’s Cupid’s dove? Hey? I suppose she’s making little clothes already? Hey?” He laughed pursily; helped himself, unbidden, to the beer, cut himself a snack from his friend’s untasted breakfast, buttered it thickly, and began to eat. His friendships were selfish always. “Give nothing, but take all you can get,” would have been his motto, had he had sufficient intellect to think it out. It had helped him in the world; but his greed, never sated, had perhaps helped him less than his power of flattering those who were richer, but no more intelligent than himself. Stukeley ignored his friend’s questions, not because he objected to them, but because he expected something more from Mr. Haly. “There was another reason why I called,” said Haly, after a pause. “I travelled down from town with old Bent, your landlord that was.” “With old Bent?” said Stukeley, becoming more attentive. “Yes,” continued Haly. “He’d heard you were in Salcombe. I believe he wants to see you.” “Damn it. He does,” said Stukeley. “Well,” said Haly, “then I hope it’s not a large sum. But still, now you’re married to an heiress, you lucky dog, why, you can laugh at old Bent, I should think.” “Yes,” said Stukeley quietly. “What time is old Bent coming here?” Haly shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not in town now,” he said. “He might come any time.” Stukeley offered his friend some more beer. “By the way, Tom,” said Haly, “I don’t want to rob you, but could you lend me a fiver, just to go on with?” “I’m sorry, Monty,” said his friend; “I never lend money.” “Oh, come, Tom,” said Haly. “Don’t be a swine, man. I’d lend it to you fast enough. I’d not see a friend in want.” “I know you wouldn’t,” said Tom. “But I never lend money.” “Damn it,” said Haly, lowering his voice to a whining reproachful tone. “Well, I wouldn’t be a mean swine. Lord, man! I gave you the office about Bent. You might have a little gratitude. What’s a fiver to you? Don’t be a swine, man. I wouldn’t refuse you, I know.” Stukeley stared insolently at Haly’s blinking eyes. He seemed to relish the man’s disappointment. “No! Can’t be done, Monty,” he said. “Have some more buttered toast, instead--with sugar on it.” Haly had already eaten plenteously of this dainty; he was not to be comforted with flagons. “You are a swine,” he said angrily. “Now you’re married, I suppose you’re going back on your pals. You dirty swine. My God! I wouldn’t be mean like that. Well, keep your fiver. But old Bent shall hear something. Yes, and my new wife shall hear something. My wife Olivia, Olivia.”