He took out his pocket-book, and from it a half-sheet of scented satin paper which he held out to her. She looked at it for a moment with a grave and gloomy face, but did not wince. She said not a word.
"A fortnight ago he gave me one for nine thousand. Here it is." The same proceedings, the same silence.
"Last month there were three: one for six thousand, one for eleven thousand, and one for four thousand. Here they are."
Osorio flourished the handful of papers before his wife's eyes; then, as this did not unlock her lips, he asked: "Do you acknowledge it?"
"Acknowledge what?" she said, shortly.
"That these documents are correct."
"They are, no doubt, if they bear my signature. I have a bad memory, especially for money matters."
"A happy gift," he replied with an ironical smile, as he went through the papers in his pocket-book. "I, too, have often tried to forget them. Unfortunately my cashier makes it his business to refresh my memory. Well," he went on as his wife said no more, "I came up solely to ask you a question—namely: Do you suppose that things can go on like this?"
"I do not understand."
"I will explain. Do you suppose that you can go on drawing on my account every few days such sums as these?"