She opened a bank-book. "This is all the accounting for the two hundred you arranged to be paid in to me. You'll see I've used it legitimately—none of it's gone on frippery. And I've paid George's schooling myself this last six months, and Ann's wages, as I hadn't your permission for either. So you'll see there's even a balance left to your credit."
"Why make a song about my 'permission'? You've always been a free agent, haven't you?"
"Won't you just run your eye over this, now you're taking hold of the family bank account again?"
To satisfy her he took the book and skimmed over figures rapidly.
"You've been a good girl."
"So glad you think so."
Osborn smoked on quietly, but his thoughts were turbulent. She was giving him strange qualms, and he could not quite understand her direction. That something worked in her head he guessed, but, unwilling to hear of it, he asked no questions. It was very comfortable by the fire, and when he pitched the account-books away from her and took her hand again, she let it lie in his.
He pressed it.
"Well?" he whispered with a meaning look, wanting response.
It seemed as if she had none to give, kind and sweet as she was to him.