Then it passed. The delightful smile,
half deprecating, half appealing, once more parted her lips; the
gleam of horror no longer shone in her blue eyes.
"I am always so foolish about money," she declared, "so ignorant
that I never know how I stand, but really I think that I have
plenty, and a hundred or two more or less for rent didn't seem to
matter much."
It was a point of view, this, which Tavernake utterly failed to
comprehend. He looked at her in surprise.
"I suppose," he protested, "you know how much a year you have to
live on?"
She shook her head.
"It seems to vary all the time," she sighed. "There are so many
complications."
He looked at her in amazement.
"After all," he admitted, "you don't look as though you had much
of a head for figures."
"If only I had some one to help me!" she murmured.
Tavernake moved uneasily in his chair. His sense of danger was
growing.
"If you will excuse me now," he said, "I think that I must be
getting back. I am an employee at Dowling, Spence & Company's,
you know, and my time is not quite my own. I only came because I
promised to."
"Mr. Tavernake," she begged, looking at him full out of those
wonderful blue eyes, "please do me a great favor."
"What is it?" he asked with clumsy ungraciousness.
"Come and see me, every now and then, and let me know how my
sister is. Perhaps you may be able to suggest some way in which
I can help her."
Tavernake considered the question for a moment.
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