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.
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