The slightest possible flicker passed through Gertrude's drooped eyelids.
"She was telling me a lot about her home-life—poor oppressed thing!"
Delia asked no more. But she felt a vague discomfort.
Presently Gertrude put down her letter, and turned towards her.
"May I have that cheque, dear—before post-time? If you really meant it?"
"Certainly." Delia went to her writing-table, opened a drawer and took out her cheque-book.
A laugh—conscious and unsteady—accompanied the dipping of her pen into the ink.
"I wonder what he'll say?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Winnington—when I send him all the bills to be paid."