Her eyes and her lips both
pleaded with him.
"Mr. Tavernake," she said slowly, "Beatrice is such a dear,
obstinate creature, but she does not quite appreciate my
position. Do me a favor, please. If you have promised not to
give me her address let me at least know some way or some place
in which I could come across her. I am sure she will be glad
afterwards, and I--I shall be very grateful."
Tavernake felt that he was enveloped by something which he did
not understand, but his lack of experience was so great that he
did not even wonder at his insensibility.
"I shall keep my word to your sister," he announced, "in the
spirit as well as the letter. It is quite useless to ask me to
do otherwise."
Elizabeth was at first amazed, then angry, how angry she scarcely
knew even herself. She had been a spoilt child, she had grown
into a spoilt woman. Men, at least, had been ready enough to do
her bidding all her life. Her beauty was of that peculiar kind,
half seductive, half pathetic, wholly irresistible. And now
there had come this strange, almost impossible person, against
the armor of whose indifference she had spent herself in vain.
Her eyes filled with tears once more as she looked at him, and
Tavernake became uneasy. He glanced at the clock and again
toward the door.
"I think, if you will excuse me," he began,--
"Mr. Tavernake," she interrupted, "you are very unkind to me,
very unkind indeed."
"I cannot help it," he answered.
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