He raised dull slow eyes to her.
"Yes, I've got it here," he muttered.
Christine walked to the rug; his table was on one side of the fireplace, and she was within five or six feet of him.
"What are you doing with it?" she asked, with an impatient ring in her voice. She did not enjoy the sight of the cheque, and had hoped to be able by degrees to forget it.
"It's dated for Monday. I ought to pay it in in the morning."
"Well, why not? Of course you'll pay it in." A sudden hope rose in her. "Nothing's occurred to make it unnecessary?"
He shook his head heavily, and laid the paper down on the table.
"No, nothing," he said, and then his eyes rested on her again.
"John, aren't you well?" she asked.
Her littleness and her childishness made no appeal to his tender feelings. Their contrast with what she had done, with the way she had deceived and betrayed him, roused all his repulsion again, and with it came now a man's primitive fierce anger. It was impossible for him to pretend not to know.