"How could I?" she asked again; but unconsciously her tone had weakened.
For answer, Deerehurst folded up the cheque and held it out to her with a respectful—almost a formal bow.
"By extending to me the merest act of friendship."
She sat very still, not attempting to take the cheque.
"I—I could not repay it before January—perhaps not entirely even then."
"January, or any time. I understand the art of patience."
For one moment longer her uncertain glance wandered from the slip of paper to the glowing rose bushes; from the roses to the cold malignant face of the satyr that confronted her across the strip of grass.
"You—you are very kind. In—in January, then."
Deerehurst bowed again. And in complete silence the cheque passed from his hand to hers.
CHAPTER XI