"It's like her, damn it, just like her!" he muttered.
He knocked boldly at the door.
"Who's there?" cried Shirley from within.
"It is I—Mr. Ryder. I wish to speak to you."
"I must beg you to excuse me," came the answer, "I cannot see you."
Jefferson interfered.
"Why do you want to add to the girl's misery? Don't you think she has suffered enough?"
"Do you know what she has done?" said Ryder with pretended indignation. "She has insulted me grossly. I never was so humiliated in my life. She has returned the cheque I sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. I mean to make her take that money. It's hers, she needs it, her father's a beggar. She must take it back. It's only flaunting her contempt for me in my face and I won't permit it."
"I don't think her object in refusing that money was to flaunt contempt in your face, or in any way humiliate you," answered Jefferson. "She feels she has been sailing under false colours and desires to make some reparation."
"And so she sends me back my money, feeling that will pacify me, perhaps repair the injury she has done me, perhaps buy me into entering into her plan of helping her father, but it won't. It only increases my determination to see her and her—" Suddenly changing the topic he asked: "When do you leave us?"