"
"Imaginary ones, my dear sir," the professor assured him,--
"altogether imaginary. The quails at last! And the Clicquot!
Now this is really a delightful little meeting. I drink to its
repetition. This is indeed a treat for me. Beatrice, my love to
you! Mr. Tavernake, my best respects! The only vintage, sir,"
he concluded, setting down his empty glass appreciatively.
"To go back to what you were saying just now," Tavernake
remarked, "I quite agree with you about Beatrice's living alone.
I am very anxious for her to marry me."
The professor set down his knife and fork. His appearance was
one of ponderous theatricality.
"Sir," he declared, "this is indeed a most momentous statement.
Am I to take it as a serious offer for my daughter's hand?"
Beatrice leaned over and laid her fingers upon his.
"Father," she said, "it doesn't matter please. I am not willing
to marry Mr. Tavernake."
The professor looked from one to the other and coughed.
"Are Mr. Tavernake's means," he asked, "of sufficient importance
to warrant his entering into matrimony?"
"I have no money at all to speak of," Tavernake answered. "That
really isn't important. I shall very soon make all that your
daughter can spend."
"I agree with my daughter, sir," the professor declared. "The
subject might well be left until such time as you have improved
your position. We will dismiss it, therefore,--dismiss it at
once. We will talk--"
"Father," Beatrice interrupted, "let us talk about yourself.
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