"I wonder," he suggested, "whether you would not rather be alone
with your father."
She shook her head.
"You know so much," she replied, "and it really doesn't seem to
matter. Tell me, father, how do you spend your time?"
"I must confess, dear," the professor said, "that I have little
to do. Your sister Elizabeth is quite generous."
Beatrice sat back in her chair as though she had been struck.
"Father," she exclaimed, "listen! You are living on that money!
Doesn't it seem terrible to you? Oh, how can you do it!"
The professor looked at his daughter with an expression of pained
surprise.
"My dear," he explained, "your sister Elizabeth has always been
the moneyed one of the family. She has brains and I trust her.
It is not for me to inquire as to the source of the comforts she
provides for me. I feel myself entitled to receive them, and so
I accept."
"But, father," she went on, "can't you see--don't you know that
it's his money--Wenham's?"
"It is not a matter, this, my child," the professor observed,
sharply, "which we can discuss before strangers. Some day we
will speak of it, you and L"
"Has he--been heard of?" she asked, in a whisper.
The professor frowned.
"A hot-tempered young man, my dear," he declared uneasily, "a hot
tempered young man, indeed. Elizabeth gives me to understand
that it was just an ordinary quarrel and away he went."
Beatrice was white to the lips.
"An ordinary quarrel!" she muttered.
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