If I don't offer to pay Whittiker soon, the odious skinflint will dun me. Hugh Kendrick huffed in indignation, lolling back in his seat with a sulky expression. Having efficiently folded the gazette, his lordship tossed it on to a wing chair. Viscount Blackthorne adjusted his neckcloth with nimble fingers but, when his friend continued frowning at the newsprint spread on the table, he turned impatiently from his ref lection to whip the offending paper out from under the fellow's elbows. He leaned forwards, resting his chin in his cupped hands, absorbed in his reading. The weary censure had been directed at a gentleman who gave no more response than to deepen the furrow in his brow.
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