"
She nodded, a trifle shamefacedly.
"I am so afraid some one will tell him," she confessed. "They
nearly always ask me to leave out his part of the performance.
They have even offered me more money if I would come alone. But
you see how it is. He believes in himself, he thinks he is very
clever and he believes that the public like his show. It is the
only thing which helps him to keep a little self-respect. He
thinks that my singing is almost unnecessary."
Tavernake looked into that faint glimmer of miserable fire. He
was conscious of a curious feeling in his throat. How little he
knew of life! The pathos of what she had told him, the thought
of her bravely traveling the country and singing at third-rate
music-halls, never taking any credit to herself, simply that her
father might still believe himself a man of talent, appealed to
him irresistibly. He suddenly held out his hand.
"Poor little Beatrice!" he exclaimed. "Dear little sister!"
The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes.
"You--you mustn't," she murmured. "Please don't!"
He held out his other hand and half rose, but her lips suddenly
ceased to quiver and she waved him back.
"No, Leonard," she begged, "please don't do or say anything
foolish. Since we do meet again, though, like this, I am going
to ask you one question. What made you come to me and ask me to
marry you that day?"
He looked away; something in her eyes accused him.
"Beatrice," he confessed, "I was a thick-headed ignorant fool,
without understanding.
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