"Talk to me now, please, about this speculation," she insisted.
"I should like to know all about it, and whether you are sure
that I shall get ten per cent for my money."
Tavernake was in no way reluctant. It was a safe topic for
conversation, and one concerning which he had plenty to say. But
after a time she stopped him.
"Well," she said, "I have discovered at any rate one subject on
which you can be fluent. Now I have had enough of building
properties, please, and house building. I should like to hear a
little about Beatrice."
Tavernake was dumb.
"I do not wish to talk about Beatrice," he declared, "until I
understand the cause of this estrangement between you."
Her eyes flashed angrily and her laugh sounded forced.
"Not even talk of her! My dear friend," she protested, "you
scarcely repay the confidence I am placing in you!"
"You mean the money?"
"Precisely," she continued. "I trust you, why I do not know--I
suppose because I am something of a physiognomist--with twelve
thousand pounds of my hard-earned savings. You refuse to trust
me with even a few simple particulars about the life of my own
sister. Come, I don't think that things are quite as they should
be between us."
"Do you know where I first met your sister?" Tavernake asked.
She shook her head pettishly.
"How should I? You told me nothing."
"She was staying in a boarding-house where I lived," Tavernake
went on. "I think I told you that but nothing else.
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