He
hummed a tune to himself and affected not to take any notice of
the other two. Then Tavernake suddenly realized that he had done
a cowardly action in leaving her without a word.
"There is so much to ask," she began at last, "but you have come
back."
She looked at his workman's clothes.
"What have you been doing?" she asked, sharply.
"Working," Tavernake answered, "good work, too. I am the better
for it. Don't mind my clothes, Beatrice. I have been mad for a
time, but after all it has been a healthy madness."
"It was a strange thing that you did," she said,--"you
disappeared."
He nodded.
"Some day," he told her, "I may, perhaps, be able to make you
understand. Just now I don't think that I could."
"It was Elizabeth?" she whispered, softly.
"It was Elizabeth," he admitted.
They said no more then till they reached the hall. She stopped
at the door and put out her hand timidly.
"I shall see you afterwards?" she ventured.
"Do you mind my coming to the performance?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"A few moments ago," she remarked, smiling, "I was dreading your
coming. Now I think that you had better. It will be all over at
ten o'clock, and I shall look for you outside. You are living in
Norwich?"
"I shall be here for to-night, at any rate," he answered.
"Very well, then," she said, "afterwards we will have a talk."
Tavernake passed through the scattered knot of loiterers at the
door and bought a seat for himself in the little music-hall,
which, notwithstanding the professor's boast, was none too well
filled.
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