Left to himself, Sir George heaved a sigh, and, resting his head on his
hand, stared long and gloomily at the candles. 'Well, better be run
through by this clown,' he muttered after a while, 'than live to put a
pistol to my own head like Mountford and Bland. Or Scarborough, or poor
Bolton. It is not likely, and I wish that little pettifogger had not put
it into my head; but if a cousin were to appear now, or before the time
is up, I should be in Queer Street. Estcombe is dipped: and of the money
I raised, there is no more at the agent's than I have lost in a night at
Quinze! D----n White's and that is all about it. And d----n it, I shall,
and finely, if old Anthony's lad turn up and sweep off the three
thousand a year that is left. Umph, if I am to have a steady hand
to-morrow I must get to bed. What unholy chance brought me into
this scrape?'