“£206 18s.—is that right?” she asked, passing the slip of paper across to Mrs. Caistor Scorton.
Mrs. Scorton picked up the cheque, glanced at its face to make sure that it was in order, and then put it away. Eric Dangerfield watched her, with an uncomfortable expression, then he turned to his other opponent:
“Give you a cheque, if you don’t mind, Morchard,” he said. “I’ll let you have it to-night or to-morrow—now, if you’re anxious.”
Morchard was still studying Eileen’s face.
“Oh, any time will do,” he said, absently. “There’s no hurry.”
The second bridge-table completed a rubber and the players rose from their seats. Mrs. Brent, in her turn, left her chair and approached the group.
“I think it’s growing closer every minute,” she said. “Would anyone care to walk in the gardens for a while? I’m going out.”
Morchard seized on the suggestion.
“That’s a good idea. Care to come down to the Pool, Miss Cressage? It’s sure to be cooler there, beside the water.”
The girl assented listlessly. Her mind was still busy with the disaster of the evening. What a fool she had been! But calling herself names would hardly help now. She would have to find some way out of the affair; and the raising of £200 was beyond her resources completely. Perhaps Mrs. Caistor Scorton wasn’t so bad as she seemed. Possibly she might turn out to be rather a decent person; these surface-hard people often were like that. Of course the money would have to be found eventually; but if time were given, something might be done.