Good-bye, dear Leonard,
YOUR SISTER BEATRICE.
Tavernake looked from the sheet of notepaper out across the gray
square. He knew that he was very angry, angry though he
deliberately folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket,
angry though he took off his overcoat and hung it up with his
usual care; but his anger was with himself. He had blundered
badly. This episode of his life was one which he had better
forget. It was absolutely out of harmony with all his ideas. He
told himself that he was glad Beatrice was gone. Housekeeping
with an imaginary sister in this practical world was an
absurdity. Sooner or later it must have come to an end. Better
now, before it had gone too far--better now, much better! All
the same, he knew that he was going to be very lonely.
He rang the bell for the woman who waited upon them, and whom he
seldom saw, for Beatrice herself had supplied their immediate
wants. He found some dinner ready, which he ate with absolute
unconsciousness. Then he threw himself fiercely into his work.
It was all very well for the first hour or so, but as ten o'clock
grew near he began to find a curious difficulty in keeping his
attention fixed upon those calculations. The matter of average
rentals, percentage upon capital--things which but yesterday he
had found fascinating--seemed suddenly irksome. He could fix his
attention upon nothing. At last he pushed his papers away, put
on his hat and coat, and walked into the street.
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