"Yes," he answered. "I had to go to the stage doorkeeper for
your address."
"He hadn't the slightest right to give it you," she declared.
Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.
"I had to have it," he said simply.
"The power of the purse again!" she laughed. "Now that you are
here, I don't believe that you are a bit glad to see me. Are
you?"
He did not answer for a moment. He was thinking of that vigil
upon the Embankment, of the long walk home, of the battle with
himself, the continual striving to tear from his heart this new
thing, for which, with a curious and most masculine
inconsistency, he persisted in holding her responsible.
"You know, Leonard," she continued, getting up abruptly and
beginning to make the tea, "I believe that you are angry with me.
If you are, all I can say is that you are a very foolish person.
I had to come away. Can't you see that?"
"I cannot," he answered stolidly.
She sighed.
"You are not a reasonable person," she declared. "I suppose it
is because you have led such a queer life, and had no womenfolk
to look after you. You don't understand. It was absurd, in a
way, that I should ever have called myself your sister, that we
should even have attempted such a ridiculous experiment. But
after--after the other night--"
"Can't we forget that?" he interrupted.
She raised her eyes and looked at him.
"Can you?" she asked.
There was a curious, almost a pleading earnestness in her tone.
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