"If you knew everything," she continued, "you would not be so
obstinate. If Beatrice herself were here, if I could whisper
something in her ear, she would be only too thankful that I had
found her out. Beatrice has always misunderstood me, Mr.
Tavernake. It is a little hard upon me, for we are both so far
away from home, from our friends."
"You can send her any message you like by me," Tavernake
declared. "If you like, I will wait while you write a letter.
If you really have anything to say to her which might change her
opinion, you can write it, can't you?"
She looked down at her hands--very beautiful and well-kept hands
--and sighed. This young man, with his unusual imperturbability
and hateful common sense, was getting on her nerves.
"It is so hard to write things, Mr. Tavernake," she said, "but,
of course, it is something to know that if the worst happens I
can send her a letter. I shall think about that for a short
time. Meanwhile, there is so much about her I would love to have
you tell me. She has no money, has she? How does she support
herself?"
"She sings occasionally at concerts," Tavernake replied after a
moment's pause. "I suppose there is no harm in telling you
that."
Elizabeth leaned towards him. She was very loth indeed to
acknowledge defeat. Once more her voice was deliciously soft,
her forehead delicately wrinkled, her blue eyes filled with
alluring light.
"Mr. Tavernake," she murmured, "do you know that you are not in
the least kind to me? Beatrice and I are sisters, after all.
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