"Oh, yes, in many ways."
"Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers over hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?"
"Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The wrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of what cannot be helped?"
"Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?"
"I am afraid not." Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, if you choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"—throwing down her eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her most guileless air—"you would write something for me."
"What a simple request! Of course I will—anything."
"Really? You promise?"
"Faithfully."
"It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a request as it appears. I want you, in fact, to—write me—a check!"
Sir Penthony laughs, and covers the white and heavily-jeweled little hand that glitters before him on the table once more with his own.