She sat quite still. Tavernake unconsciously found himself
watching her. There were things in her eyes which frightened
him. It seemed as though she were looking out of the gay little
restaurant, with its lights and music and air of comfort, out
into some distant quarter of the world, some other and very
different place. She was living through something which chilled
her heart, something terrifying. Tavernake saw those things in
her face and his eyes spelt them out mercilessly.
"Father," she whispered, leaning towards him, "do you believe
what you have just been saying to me?"
It was the professor's turn to be disturbed. He concealed his
discomfiture, however, with a gesture of annoyance.
"That is scarcely a proper question, Beatrice," he answered
sharply. "Ah," he added, with more geniality, "the cocktails!
My young friend Tavernake, I drink to our better acquaintance!
You are English, as I can see, a real Britisher. Some day you
must come out to our own great country--my daughter, of course,
has told you that we are Americans. A great country, sir,--the
greatest I have ever lived in--room to breathe, room to grow,
room for a young man like you to plant his ambitions and watch
them blossom. To our better acquaintance, Mr. Tavernake, and may
we meet some day in the United States!"
Tavernake drank the first cocktail in his life and wiped the
tears from his eyes. The professor found safety in conversation.
"You know," he went on, "that I am a man of science.
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