Bob Pillin rose and paced the room. In the midst of his emotion he could not help seeing himself sidelong in the mirror; and on pretext of holding his head in both his hands, tried earnestly to restore his hair. Then coming to a halt he said:
“Suppose I am lending money to your mother, what does it matter? It's only till quarter-day. Anybody might want money.”
Phyllis did not raise her face.
“Why are you lending it?”
“Because—because—why shouldn't I?” and diving suddenly, he seized her hands.
She wrenched them free; and with the emotion of despair, Bob Pillin took out the envelope.
“If you like,” he said, “I'll tear this up. I don't want to lend it, if you don't want me to; but I thought—I thought—” It was for her alone he had been going to lend this money!
Phyllis murmured through her hair:
“Yes! You thought that I—that's what's so hateful!”
Apprehension pierced his mind.