“I refuse. It is against my principles.” My frantic George clutched at a shimmering hope. “Against your principles to lend? Do you mean that you will give--give me 500 pounds?” “Barley water!” Mr. Marrapit gasped. He drank; gasped: “Give 500 pounds! You are light-headed!” “Then lend it!” George supplicated on a last appeal. “Make any conditions you please, and I will accept them. Uncle, think of when you were a young man. Remember the time when you were on the threshold of your career. Think of when you were engaged as I am now engaged. Imagine your feelings if you had been prevented marrying. You won't stand in my way? The happiest life is before me if you will only give your aid. Otherwise--otherwise--oh, I say, you won't refuse?” “I implore you to close this distressing scene.” “Will you lend me the money?” “My principles prevent me.” “Then damn your principles!” George shouted. “Damn your principles!” While he had been battering his head against this brick wall he had been saved pain by the hope that a last chance would carry him through. Now that he realised the futility of the endeavour, the stability of the wall, he had time to feel the bruising he had suffered--the bitterness of failure and of all that failure meant. The hurts combined to make him roar with pain, and he shouted furiously again: “Damn your principles!” “Barley water!” throated Mr. Marrapit on a note of terror. He reached for the glass. It was empty. He struggled to his feet; got the chair between George and himself; cried across it: “Beware how you touch me.” “Oh, I'm not going to touch you. You needn't be afraid.” “I have every need. I am afraid. Keep your distance. You are not responsible for your actions.” “You needn't be afraid, I tell you. It is too ridiculous.” “I repeat I have need. Keep your distance. My limbs tremble as one in a palsy.” Mr. Marrapit gripped the chair-back; his shudders advertised his distress. “I only want to say this,” George declaimed, “that if you refuse what I ask, you are refusing what is lawfully mine. My mother left you 4000 pounds for my education. At the outside you have spent three. The 500 pounds is mine. I have a right to it.” “Keep your distance, sir.” My furious George took three steps forward. “Can you answer what I say?” he shouted. Mr. Marrapit gave a thin cry: turned, and with surprising bounds made across the lawn. A slipper shot from his foot. He alighted upon a stone; bounded heavenwards with a shrill scream; and hopping, leaping, shuffling, made the corner of the house. George swung on his heel. It occurred to him to visit Bill Wyvern. CHAPTER IV. The Rape Of The Rose. I. Bill was away from home, the maid who answered the door told George; Mrs. Wyvern was out; the Professor was in his study. George found the great biologist warming his chilly old bones in a vast armchair before a fire.