‘I tell you I am doing it with a good motive. If you were a thorough Socialist, you would respect me all the more. This money was made out of overworked—’
He was laying his hand on the will; she sprang forward and grasped his arm.
‘Richard, give it to me!’
‘No, I shall not.’
He had satisfied himself that if the will was actually destroyed she would acquiesce in silence; the shame she spoke of would constrain her. He pushed her away without violence, and moved towards the door. But her muteness caused him to turn and regard her. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, her eyes fixed in despair.
‘Richard!’
‘Well?’
‘Are you trying me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you believe that I should let you do that and help you to hide it?’