Clodagh laid her hand nervously on the arm of the seat. "I have been stupid!" she said almost defiantly. "I have overstepped my allowance, and must ask Mr. Barnard to advance me some money. And--and I, somehow, hate to do it. Am I not a fool?" She laughed unsteadily, and turned to look at her companion; but he had drawn back into the shadow of the seat. "Oh, it's childish! Ridiculous! I am disgusted with myself!" Her glance again crossed the strip of green lawn to where the stone satyr stood. Quite silently Deerehurst bent forward again. "What is the amount?" he asked softly. "A thousand pounds." "And is Barnard such a very great friend?" Clodagh started. "No! Oh no! Why?" She turned quickly and looked at him. "Because I wish to know why it should be Barnard." There was a long silence, in which she felt her heart beat uncomfortably fast. A sudden surprise--a sudden confusion--filled her. Then, through the confusion, she was conscious that Deerehurst was speaking again. "Why should you think of Barnard?" he murmured. "Barnard is not a rich man. To advance you a thousand pounds may possibly inconvenience him; whereas a man who need not consider ways and means----" Clodagh sat very still. "Yes. But I think----" "And why think?" he spoke calmly, considerately, without a tinge of disturbing emotion. "Why think? Why write that troublesome letter? Why ask a favour when, by granting one----" "Granting one----?" "Yes. When, by granting a favour, you can make everything smooth. Think what it would be to me, for instance, if some of the money I am saddled with were used to bring you happiness--or peace! Think of the favour _you_ would be doing _me_!" She half rose, then sank back again. "Oh, but I couldn't! How could I?" "And why not? Look! I have only to open my cheque-book"--he very quietly drew a cheque-book from his breast-pocket--"find the all-powerful pen"--he searched for, and produced, a gold pen--"and--look!" He wrote rapidly for a moment; then held a fluttering white paper in front of Clodagh's eyes. "Look!" With a little start, a little cry of deprecation, she rose from her seat. In a flash of memory she recalled the night on the balcony at Venice, when he had kissed her hand; she recalled the letter she had found awaiting her in her room at the hotel. In sudden fear, she glanced at him. Then her fear faltered. To her searching eyes, he presented the same aspect that he had assumed since their first meeting in London--the aspect of a tried, deferential friend. "How could I?" she asked again; but unconsciously her tone had weakened. For answer, Deerehurst folded up the cheque and held it out to her with a respectful--almost a formal bow. "By extending to me the merest act of friendship." She sat very still, not attempting to take the cheque. "I--I could not repay it before January--perhaps not entirely even then." "January, or any time. I understand the art of patience."