as if all he wanted was to get the paper and hide it.
"Give it to me!" he demanded authoritatively. "It does n't concern you."
"It does," she cried, "it does! But what is it? What does it mean?"
She looked back at it, and her eyes ran down the list of figures, and then were raised to his, full of a piercingly anguished inquiry.
"It 's nothing but a business matter between your father and me; and you don't understand business."
"I do understand—I understand this!" she answered; and then, with a sudden cry of shame and pain, she threw the crumpled paper on the table and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, how could he!" she whispered. "How could he!"
Gault looked at her, mute and motionless. From the moment he had seen her face as she read the paper, he knew that every suspicion he had had was groundless. He was ashamed to speak, almost to move. The sound of his own voice was hateful to him. He stood helplessly looking at her, shaken with pity, passion, and remorse. Finally he said gently:
"Look at me, Viola."
She obeyed him like a child. Her face was drawn; her eyes, after the moment of meeting his, sank.
