“Of course, I care.”
“Then you had better read the letter.”
She watched his face gathering gloom and anger as he did so, and when he threw it from him with some unintelligible words, she lifted and put it again in her bag.
“That is my letter, Roberta, give it to me.”
“You have just flung it away from you. I am going to keep it—it may be useful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Neil, you must now answer me one or two questions. On your answers our living together depends.”
He laughed softly, and said, “Nothing so serious as that, surely, Roberta!”
“Just that. When you went to your father’s funeral, you told me that you owed your sister ninety pounds. You said it was her life’s savings from both labor and gifts, and that she had loaned it to you, in order to make possible your final year at the Maraschal. You said further, that your father was not a saving man, and you feared they would be pinched for money to bury him. And I loaned you ninety pounds, being glad to see such a touch of natural affection in you. This letter from Christine says plainly that you never paid her the ninety pounds you borrowed from me. Is Christine telling the truth?”