No wonder that Tavernake
felt his heart beat against his ribs! He took her hands and held
them for a moment. Then he turned abruptly away.
"Good-night!" he said.
He disappeared through the swing doors. She strolled across the
room to where her friends were sitting in a circle, laughing and
talking. Her father, who had just come in and joined them,
gripped her by the arm as she sat down.
"What does it mean?" he demanded, with shaking voice. "Did you
see that he was there with Pritchard--your young man--that
wretched estate agent's clerk? I tell you that Pritchard was
pumping him for all he was worth."
"My dear father," she whispered, coldly, "don't be melodramatic.
You give yourself away the whole time. Go to bed if you can't
behave like a man."
The lights had been turned low, there was no one else in the
room. The little old gentleman with the eyeglass leaned forward.
"Have you any notion, my dear Elizabeth," he asked, "why our
friend Pritchard is so much in evidence just at present?"
"Not on account of you, Jimmy," she answered, "nor of any one
else here, in fact. The truth is he has conceived a violent
admiration for me--an admiration so pronounced, indeed, that he
hates to let me out of his sight."
They all laughed uproariously. Then Walter Crease, the
journalist, leaned forward,--a man with a long, narrow face,
yellow-stained fingers, and hollow cheekbones. He glanced around
the room before he spoke, and his voice sounded like a hoarse
whisper.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172