"Would you let me give it to you, Cleland?"
"I can't, Grismer.... It's splendid of you."
"I shall not need the money," said Grismer, almost absently, and for an instant his gaze grew vague and remote. Then he turned his head again, where it lay cradled on his clasped hands behind his neck: "You won't let me give it to you, I know. And there's no use telling you that I shall not need the money. You won't believe me.... You won't understand how absolutely meaningless is money to me—just now. Well, then—write in what you care to offer."
"I can't do that, Grismer."
The other smiled and, still smiling, named a figure. And Cleland wrote it out, detached the cheque, started to rise, but Grismer told him to lay it on the table beside his glass of orange juice.
"It's a thing no man can pay for," said Cleland, looking at the model.
Grismer said quietly:
"The heart alone can pay for anything.... A gift without it is a cheque unsigned.... Cleland, I've spoken to you twice since you have returned from abroad—but you have not understood. And there is much unsaid between us. It must be said some day.... There are questions you ought to ask me. I'd see any other man in hell before I'd answer. But I'll answer you!"
Cleland turned his eyes, heavy with care, on this man who was speaking.
Grismer said: