"Yes," he said, "I am on the war-path again. I tried resting but
I got fat and lazy, and the people wouldn't have it, sir," he
continued, recovering very quickly something of his former
manner. "The number of offers I got through my agents by every
post was simply astounding--astounding!"
"I am looking forward to seeing your performance this evening,"
Tavernake said politely. "In the meantime--"
"I know what you are thinking of," the professor interrupted.
"Well, well, give me your arm and we will walk down to the hall
together. My friends," the professor added, turning round, "I
wish you all a good-night!"
Then the door was pushed half-way open and Tavernake's heart gave
a jump. It was Beatrice who stood there, very pale, very tired,
and much thinner even than the Beatrice of the boardinghouse, but
still Beatrice.
"Father," she exclaimed, "do you know that it is nearly--"
Then she saw Tavernake and said no more. She seemed to sway a
little, and Tavernake, taking a quick step forward, grasped her
by the hands.
"Dear sister," he cried, "you have been ill!"
She was herself again almost in a moment.
"Ill? Never in my life," she replied. "Only I have been
hurrying--we are late already for the performance--and seeing you
there, well, it was quite a shock, you know. Walk down with us
and tell me all about it.
Tell us what you are doing here--or rather, don't talk for a
moment! It is all so amazing."
They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the professor walking
in the middle of the roadway, swinging his cane, a very imposing
and wonderful figure, with the tails of his frock-coat streaming
in the wind, his long hair only half-hidden by his hat.
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