“Please, please sit down,” said Agnes, in the even tones she used when speaking to the servants; “let us not discuss side issues. I am a horribly direct person, Mr. Wonham. I go always straight to the point.” She opened a chequebook. “I am afraid I shall shock you. For how much?” He was not attending. “There is the paper we suggest you shall sign.” She pushed towards him a pseudo-legal document, just composed by Herbert. “In consideration of the sum of........., I agree to perpetual silence—to restrain from libellous ... never to molest the said Frederick Elliot by intruding—’” His brain was not quick. He read the document over twice, and he could still say, “But what’s that cheque for?” “It is my husband’s. He signed for you as soon as we heard you were here. We guessed you had come to be silenced. Here is his signature. But he has left the filling in for me. For how much? I will cross it, shall I? You will just have started a banking account, if I understand Mrs. Failing rightly. It is not quite accurate to say you are penniless: I heard from her just before you returned from your cricket. She allows you two hundred a-year, I think. But this additional sum—shall I date the cheque Saturday or for tomorrow?” At last he found words. Knocking his pipe out on the table, he said slowly, “Here’s a very bad mistake.” “It is quite possible,” retorted Agnes. She was glad she had taken the offensive, instead of waiting till he began his blackmailing, as had been the advice of Rickie. Aunt Emily had said that very spring, “One’s only hope with Stephen is to start bullying first.” Here he was, quite bewildered, smearing the pipe-ashes with his thumb. He asked to read the document again. “A stamp and all!” he remarked. They had anticipated that his claim would exceed two pounds. “I see. All right. It takes a fool a minute. Never mind. I’ve made a bad mistake.” “You refuse?” she exclaimed, for he was standing at the door. “Then do your worst! We defy you!” “That’s all right, Mrs. Elliot,” he said roughly. “I don’t want a scene with you, nor yet with your husband. We’ll say no more about it. It’s all right. I mean no harm.” “But your signature then! You must sign—you—” He pushed past her, and said as he reached for his cap, “There, that’s all right. It’s my mistake. I’m sorry.” He spoke like a farmer who has failed to sell a sheep. His manner was utterly prosaic, and up to the last she thought he had not understood her. “But it’s money we offer you,” she informed him, and then darted back to the study, believing for one terrible moment that he had picked up the blank cheque. When she returned to the hall he had gone. He was walking down the road rather quickly. At the corner he cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, and disappeared.