'When she can bear it.' Peggy grew embarrassed as the ground became more difficult. 'If ever other things made her feel that what had happened didn't matter, that now at all events people valued her, or—or that she'd rather owe it to somebody else than to herself or her own luck.'
He did not mistake her meaning, but his face was still clouded; hesitation and struggle hung about him still. Neither by word nor in writing had Peggy ever thanked him for what he had done; since she had kissed his hand and left him, nothing had passed between them till to-day. She guessed his mind; he had done what she asked, but he was still miserable. His misery perhaps made the act more splendid, but it left the future still in shade. How could the shade be taken away?
She gathered her courage and faced the perilous advance.
'You'll have observed,' she said, with a nervous laugh, 'that I didn't exactly press my—my contribution on you. I—I rather want it, Airey.'
'I suppose you do. But that's not your reason—and it wasn't mine,' he answered.
'Is it there still?' She pointed to the safe. He nodded. 'Take it out and give it to me. No, give me just—just twenty-five.'
'You're in a saving mood,' remarked Airey grimly, as he obeyed her.
'Don't shut the safe yet,' she commanded hastily. 'Leave it like that—yes, just half-way. What ogreish old bolts it's got!'
'Why not shut it?' he objected in apparent annoyance. Did the sight of its partial depletion vex him? For before Peggy could go to Fricker's, some of its hoard had gone to Tommy Trent.