"
"Don't you mean to speak to her at all, then?" Tavernake asked.
"I dare not," the professor replied. "I am naturally of a
truthful disposition, and if Elizabeth were to ask me if I had
spoken to her sister, I should give myself away at once. No, I
look on and that is all."
Tavernake drummed with his fingers upon the tablecloth.
Something in the merriment of that little party downstairs had
filled him with a very bitter feeling.
"You ought to go and claim her, professor," he declared. "Look
down at them now. Is that the best life for a girl? The men are
almost strangers to her, and the girls are not fit for her to
associate with. She has no friends, no relatives. Your daughter
Elizabeth can do without you very well. She is strong enough to
take care of herself."
"But my dear sir," the professor objected, "Beatrice could not
support me."
Tavernake paid his bill without another word. Downstairs the
lights had been lowered, the party at the round table were
already upon their feet.
"Good-night, professor!" he said. "I am going to see the last of
Beatrice from the top of the stairs."
The professor followed him--they stood there and watched her
depart with Annie Legarde. The two girls got into a taxicab
together, and Tavernake breathed a sigh of relief, a relief for
which he was wholly unable to account, when he saw that Grier
made no effort to follow them. As soon as the taxi had rolled
away, they descended and passed into the street.
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