CRAWSHAW (humorously). In more parliamentary language, perhaps, Richard. I should tell him I never took money from strangers. RICHARD. Quite so; but that if it were ten thousand pounds, you would take it? CRAWSHAW. I most certainly shouldn't. RICHARD. But if he died and left it to you, _then_ you would? CRAWSHAW (blandly). Ah, I thought you were leading up to that. That, of course, is entirely different. RICHARD. Why? CRAWSHAW. Well--ah--wouldn't _you_ take ten thousand pounds if it were left to you by a stranger? RICHARD. I daresay I should. But I should like to know why it would seem different. CRAWSHAW (professionally). Ha-hum! Well--in the first place, when a man is dead he wants his money no longer. You can therefore be certain that you are not taking anything from him which he cannot spare. And in the neat place, it is the man's dying wish that you should have the money. To refuse would be to refuse the dead. To accept becomes almost a sacred duty. RICHARD. It really comes to this, doesn't it? You won't take it from him when he's alive, because if you did, you couldn't decently refuse him a little gratitude; but you know that it doesn't matter a damn to him what happens to his money after he's dead, and therefore you can take it without feeling any gratitude at all. CRAWSHAW. No, I shouldn't put it like that. RICHARD (smiling). I'm sure you wouldn't, Robert. CRAWSHAW No doubt you can twist it about so that-- RICHARD. All right, we'll leave that and go on to the next point. Suppose a perfect stranger offered you five pounds to part your hair down the middle, shave off your moustache, and wear only one whisker--if he met you suddenly in the street, seemed to dislike your appearance, took out a fiver and begged you to hurry off and alter yourself--of course you'd pocket the money and go straight to your barber's? CRAWSHAW. Now you are merely being offensive. RICHARD. I beg your pardon. I should have said that if he had left you five pounds in his will?--well, then twenty pounds? a hundred pounds?--a thousand pounds?--fifty thousand pounds?--(Jumping up excitedly) It's only a question of price--fifty thousand pounds, Robert--a pink tie with purple spots, hair across the back, trousers with a patch in the fall myself Wurzel-Flummery--any old thing you like, you can't insult me--anything you like, gentlemen, for fifty thousand pounds. (Lowering his voice) Only you must leave it in your will, and then I can feel that it is a sacred duty--a sacred duty, my lords and gentlemen. (He sinks back into the sofa and relights his pipe.) CRAWSHAW. (rising with dignity). It is evidently useless to prolong this conversation. RICHARD (waving him dorm again). No, no, Robert; I've finished. I just took the other side--and I got carried away. I ought to have been at the Bar.