At the worst it's only a question
of money, and we can always put that right somehow.
BOB. I'm not sure that it is only a question of money.
GERALD (frightened). What do you mean? (Turning away with a laugh)
You're talking nonsense.
BOB. Gerald, Marcus is a wrong un. (Fiercely) An out-and-out wrong
un.
GERALD. The only time I saw him he looked like it.
BOB. God knows what he's let me in for.
GERALD. You mean money?
BOB. More than that, perhaps.
GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt?
BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution.
GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well
rid of him.
BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus.
GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute
you for?
BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the
City for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I
loathe the whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me
there for--and shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his
life, messing about with money in the City. How can I stand out
against a man like that? I never wanted to go into it at all.
GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette?
(They each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to
him.) Let's look at it calmly.
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