"This is very bad news," Tavernake remarked, thinking gloomily of
his wasted day. "It will be a great disappointment to Mr.
Dowling. Why, her motor-car was magnificent, and she talked as
though money were no object at all. I suppose you are quite sure
of what you are saying?"
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.
"I ought to know," she answered, grimly, "for she is my sister."
Tavernake remained quite motionless for a minute, without speech;
it was his way of showing surprise. When he was sure that he had
grasped the import of her words, he spoke again.
"Your sister!" he repeated. "There is a likeness, of course.
You are dark and she is fair, but there is a likeness. That
would account," he continued, "for her anxiety to find you."
"It also accounts," Beatrice replied, with a little break of the
lips, "for my anxiety that she should not find me. Leonard," she
added, touching his hand for a moment with hers, "I wish that I
could tell you everything, but there are things behind, things so
terrible, that even to you, my dear brother, I could not speak of
them."
Tavernake rose to his feet and lit a cigarette--a new habit with
him, while Beatrice busied herself with a small coffee-making
machine. He sat in an easy-chair and smoked slowly. He was
still wearing his ready-made clothes, but his collar was of the
fashionable shape, his tie well chosen and neatly adjusted. He
seemed somehow to have developed.
"Beatrice," he asked, "what am I to tell your sister to-morrow?"
She shivered as she set his coffee-cup down by his side.
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