"He--I have brought his letter."
She found her pocket, and brought forth the letter which had come to her
by the morning post, ravaging her heart, turning the sunshine black,
making the song of the imprisoned lark opposite into a dirge, plunging her
back into the woe which had been hers at the time of her father's
disgrace. She drew the miserable letter from its envelope and held it to
Sir Francis in trembling fingers.
"No," he said, and waved it away. "It is perhaps something that your
brother would rather not have known. Something which can remain between
you and him. And this--this fifty pounds"--he had gone to his
writing-table, pulled a cheque-book from a drawer, was writing within it
as he spoke--"this also is between you and me. No one, besides, needs ever
to know a word of it."
The chair he had arranged for her to sit in was by the writing-table; he,
sitting on the opposite side of it, lifted his eyes to her face without
lifting his head: "You wish this made out to your brother or yourself?"
"To my brother."
"Will you tell me his name?"
"Bernard William."
She watched his strong white hand move over the paper, writing so easily
the words that were of such moment to her.
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