Be reasonable, Mr. Tavernake."
Tavernake stood quite still. His arms were folded, he was
looking out of the hall window at the smoky vista of roofs and
chimneys. From the soles of his ready-made boots to his
ill-brushed hair, he was a commonplace young man. A hundred
pounds was to him a vast sum of money. It represented a year's
strenuous savings, perhaps more. The woman who watched him
imagined that he was hesitating. Tavernake, however, had no such
thought in his mind. He stood there instead, wondering what
strange thing had come to him that the mention of a hundred
pounds, delightful sum though it was, never tempted him for a
single second. What this woman had said might be true. She
would probably be able to discover the address easily enough
without his help. Yet no such reflection seemed to make the
least difference. From the days of his earliest boyhood, from
the time when he had flung himself into the struggle, money had
always meant much to him, money not for its own sake but as the
key to those things which he coveted in life. Yet at that moment
something stronger seemed to have asserted itself.
"You will come?" she whispered, passing her arm through his. "We
will be there in less than five minutes, and I will write you the
cheque before you tell me anything."
He moved towards the door indeed, but he drew a little away from
her.
"Madam," he said, "I am sorry to seem so obstinate, but I thought
I had made you understand some time ago.
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