A few yards away, Elizabeth, her fur coat laid aside, was
lounging back in an easy-chair, her dress all glittering with
sequins, a curious light in her eyes, a cruel smile parting her
lips. By her side--sitting, in fact, on the arm of her chair
--was Crease, his long, worn face paler, even, than usual; his
lips curled in a smile of cynical amusement. Major Post was
there, carefully dressed as though he had been attending some
social gathering, standing upon the hearth-rug with his
coat-tails under his arms. The professor, in whose face seemed
written the most abject terror, was talking. Tavernake now could
hear every word distinctly.
"My dear Elizabeth! My dear Crease! You are both too
precipitate! I tell you that I protest--I protest most strongly.
Mr. Pritchard, I am sure, with a little persuasion, will listen
to reason. I will not be a party to any such proceeding as--as
this. You understand, Crease? We have gone quite far enough as
it is. I will not have it."
Elizabeth laughed softly.
"My dear father," she said, "you will really have to take
something for your nerves. Nothing need happen to Mr. Pritchard
at all unless he asks for it. He has his chance--. no one
should expect more."
"You are right, my dear Elizabeth," declared Crease, speaking
very slowly and with his usual drawl. "This question of his
health for the future--at any rate, for the immediate future--is
entirely in Pritchard's own hands. There is no one who has
received so many warnings as he.
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