"I am certain he has done it honestly!" she cried indignantly. "There are the letters—from the jewellers—" And running to the bureau, she took thence a packet of letters and thrust them into Winnington's hands.
He looked them through in silence,—turning to her, as he put them down.
"I see. It is of course possible that this firm of jewellers have paid Mr. Lathrop a heavy commission behind the scenes, of which you know nothing. But I don't press that. Indeed I will assume exactly the contrary. I will suppose that Mr. Lathrop has acted without any profit to himself. If so, in my eyes it only makes the matter worse—for it establishes a claim on you. Miss Delia!—" his resolute gaze held her—"I do not take a farthing of this money unless you allow me to write to Mr. Lathrop, and offer him a reasonable commission for his services!"
"No—no! Impossible!"
She turned away from him, towards the window, biting her lip—in sharp distress.
"Then I return you this cheque"—he laid it down beside her. "And I shall replace the money,—the £500—which I ought never to have allowed you to spend as you have done, out of my own private pocket."
She stood silent, looking into the garden, her chest heaving. She thought of what Lady Tonbridge had told her of his modest means—and those generous hidden uses of them, of which even his most intimate friends only got an occasional glimpse. Suddenly she went up to him—
"Will you—will you promise me to write civilly?" she said, in a wavering voice.
"Certainly."
"You won't offend—insult him?"