She hesitated momentarily. "I—I'm afraid rather a lot, Trevor."
"How much?" he repeated; and then, as she still hesitated, his hold tightened and his face grew grave. He looked straight down into her eyes. "Chris," he said, "you haven't forgotten, have you, that it is against my wish that you should let your brothers have money?"
She met the look unflinching. "No, Trevor."
He released her without further question. "Then you need not be afraid to tell me how much."
She made a little grimace. The part was getting easier to play. She was beginning to feel almost natural. But the other woman—the woman of the world who surely had never been Chris Wyndham—was still there in the background watching the farce and smiling cynically. Chris was beginning to be afraid of this new personality of hers. It was infinitely more formidable than her husband had ever been.
"How much, dear?" Mordaunt asked quietly.
She started slightly. "Thirty pounds," she said.
"Your account is overdrawn to that amount?"
"Yes." She glanced at him nervously. "I am very sorry," she said again.
He remained grave, but perfectly kind. "I will pay in fifty pounds to-morrow," he said. "That will take you to the end of the month."