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. How the great ruby in the ring he wore on the hand which held the pen seemed to glow and burn in the sunlight. On the little finger of his other hand was a plain small circlet she knew to be from the finger of his dead wife. She noticed in the strong light from the window how the smooth black hair had grown grey about the ears, how lines which had not been there before had graved themselves in the handsome, impassive face. Was he very unhappy too, Deleah wondered, in the midst of her own trouble? Did he still mourn, as they said he had done, so heavily, for the lost wife? He pushed the cheque across the table to her. "There!" he said. He had caught her gaze fixed with its sorrowful questioning upon his face, and he put away from him his doubt, his annoyance, and in spite of himself smiled encouragement into her pleading, beautiful, innocently worshipping eyes. "Do not be unhappy," he said. "This will put things right, we will hope; and set your brother on his feet again. You must not look so sad." At the words--he had been wrong to speak so kindly--the clear hazel of her eyes was suffused with tears. The eyes were doubly beautiful so. "'I'll not believe but Desdemona's honest'" he found himself replying to that annoying little voice which kept whispering, "Have they put her on to me?" Deleah kept her wet eyes strained upon him, lest in lowering them the tears should overflow. "I don't know what you can think of me," she said falteringly. "I don't know how I had courage to come. I only had Bernard's letter this morning; he said--it--must be done to-day. My mother must not know: there is no one else: I had no one to ask. You had been so good to me once--I thought of you." "I quite understand. Quite. Quite." "I was a child then," she laboured on, forcing herself to try to express what she felt ought to be said; "and although I had no right to trouble you, to a child things may be forgiven. But now--but now--!" "But now," he repeated, and smiled his faint smile again. To him she was but a child still, and his tone conveyed that message. "I am very much ashamed," she said. "And so--so grateful." She folded the cheque, put it in her cheap, little-used purse, and stood up. So humiliated she felt, she hesitated to put out her hand, lest he should think it presumptuous on her part to expect him to shake hands with her. "Where is this brother of yours? What is he doing?" he asked. "He is at Ingleby. Mr. George Boult put him into one of his shops in the country." "Oh! George Boult?"