Very red above his collar, Bob Pillin stammered:
“I never told him to; he isn't my lawyer. I don't know what it means.”
Mrs. Larne smiled. “My dear boy, it's all right. You needn't be so squeamish. I want it to be quite on a business footing.”
Restraining a fearful inclination to blurt out: “It's not going to be on any footing!” Bob Pillin mumbled: “I must go; I'm late.”
“And when will you be able—-?”
“Oh! I'll—I'll send—I'll write. Good-bye!” And suddenly he found that Mrs. Larne had him by the lapel of his coat. The scent of violets and fur was overpowering, and the thought flashed through him: 'I believe she only wanted to take money off old Joseph in the Bible. I can't leave my coat in her hands! What shall I do?'
Mrs. Larne was murmuring:
“It would be so sweet of you if you could manage it today”; and her hand slid over his chest. “Oh! You have brought your cheque-book—what a nice boy!”
Bob Pillin took it out in desperation, and, sitting down at the bureau, wrote a cheque similar to that which he had torn and burned. A warm kiss lighted on his eyebrow, his head was pressed for a moment to a furry bosom; a hand took the cheque; a voice said: “How delightful!” and a sigh immersed him in a bath of perfume. Backing to the door, he gasped:
“Don't mention it; and—and don't tell Phyllis, please. Good-bye!”