Their external gloom deepened; they were enjoying themselves, immensely. Peggy's orders were precisely executed.
'Present it with a firm countenance,' Miles advised, as she left them at the entrance. 'Confidence, but no bravado!'
'It is no longer a capital offence,' said Arty encouragingly. 'You won't be hanged in silk knee-breeches, like Mr. Fauntleroy.'
Peggy marched into the bank. She opened the lean little bag, and took forth a slip of paper. This she handed to a remarkably tall and prim young man behind the counter. He spoilt his own effect by wearing spectacles, but accuracy is essential in a bank.
He looked at the amount on the cheque; then he looked at Peggy. The combined effect seemed staggering. He took off his spectacles, wiped them, and replaced them with an air of meaning to see clearly this time. He turned the cheque over. 'Margaret Ryle' met him in bold and decided characters. Tradition came to his rescue.
'How will you take it?' he asked.
Peggy burst out joyously: 'It's really all right, then?'
The prim clerk almost jumped. 'I—I presume so,' he stammered, and fled precipitately from the first counter to the third.
Peggy waited in some anxiety; old prepossessions were strong on her. After all, to write a cheque is one thing, to have it honoured depends on a variety of circumstances.