For a few minutes Cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of her husband's back. But she is far too much of a coquette to let him long remain in ignorance of her near proximity. Going softly up to him, and leaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "What are you doing?" He starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition, and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder. "Is it you?" he says. "I did not hear you coming." "No? That was because I was farthest from your thoughts. You are writing? To whom?" "My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact that, sooner or later, one's tailor must be paid." "So must one's _modiste_." With a sigh. "It is that sort of person who spoils one's life." "Is your life spoiled?" "Oh, yes, in many ways." "Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers over hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?" "Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The wrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of what cannot be helped?" "Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?" "I am afraid not." Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, if you choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"--throwing down her eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her most guileless air--"you would write something for _me_." "What a simple request! Of course I will--anything." "Really? You promise?" "Faithfully." "It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. I want you, in fact, to--write me--a check!" Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own. "For how much?" he asks. "Not much,--only fifty pounds. I want to buy something particular for this ball: and"--glancing at him--"being a lone woman, without a protector, I dread going too heavily into debt." "Good child," says Sir Penthony. "You shall have your check." Drawing the book toward him as it lies before him on the davenport, he fills up a check and hands it to her. "Now, what will you give me for it?" asks he, holding the edge near him as her fingers close upon the other end. "What have I to give? Have I not just acknowledged myself insolvent? I am as poor as a church mouse." "You disparage yourself. I think you as rich as Croesus. Will you--give me a kiss?" whispers her husband, softly. There is a decided pause. Dropping the check and coloring deeply, Cecil moves back a step or two. She betrays a little indignation in her glance,--a very little, but quite perceptible. Stafford sees it. "I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, an expression of mingled pain and shame crossing his face. "I was wrong, of course. I will not buy your kisses. Here, take this bit of paper, and--forgive me."