Now you understand. I can't hear a word against
her--I won't! She may be what you say. If so, she's got to tell
me so herself!"
"You mean that you are going to believe any story she likes to
put up?"
"I mean that I am going to her," Tavernake answered, "and I have
no idea in the world what will happen--whether I shall believe
her or not. I can see what you think of me," he went on,
becoming a little more himself as the stress of unaccustomed
speech passed him by. "I will tell you something that will show
you that I realize a good deal. I know the difference between
Beatrice and Elizabeth. Less than a week ago, I asked Beatrice
to marry me. It was the only way I could think of, the only way
I could kill the fever."
"And Beatrice?" Pritchard asked, curiously.
"She wouldn't," Tavernake replied. "After all, why should she?
I have my way to make yet. I can't expect others to believe in
me as I believe in myself. She was kind but she wouldn't."
Pritchard lit a cigar.
"Look here, Tavernake," he said, "you are a young man, you've got
your life before you and life's a biggish thing. Empty out those
romantic thoughts of yours, roll up your shirt sleeves and get at
it. You are not one of these weaklings that need a woman's
whispers in their ears to spur them on. You can work without
that. It's only a chapter in your life--the passing of these
three people. A few months ago, you knew nothing of them. Let
them go.
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