"Yes. But I think——"
"And why think?" he spoke calmly, considerately, without a tinge of disturbing emotion. "Why think? Why write that troublesome letter? Why ask a favour when, by granting one——"
"Granting one——?"
"Yes. When, by granting a favour, you can make everything smooth. Think what it would be to me, for instance, if some of the money I am saddled with were used to bring you happiness—or peace! Think of the favour you would be doing me!"
She half rose, then sank back again.
"Oh, but I couldn't! How could I?"
"And why not? Look! I have only to open my cheque-book"—he very quietly drew a cheque-book from his breast-pocket—"find the all-powerful pen"—he searched for, and produced, a gold pen—"and—look!"
He wrote rapidly for a moment; then held a fluttering white paper in front of Clodagh's eyes.
"Look!"
With a little start, a little cry of deprecation, she rose from her seat. In a flash of memory she recalled the night on the balcony at Venice, when he had kissed her hand; she recalled the letter she had found awaiting her in her room at the hotel. In sudden fear, she glanced at him. Then her fear faltered. To her searching eyes, he presented the same aspect that he had assumed since their first meeting in London—the aspect of a tried, deferential friend.