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