I am hoping presently to be able to
arrange a short tour by myself, and if so, I shall send her to
the seaside. Now I want you particularly to try the fish salad
--the second dish there. Beatrice, let me help you."
Presently the orchestra began to play. The warmth of the room,
the wine and the food--Tavernake had a horrible idea once that
she had eaten nothing that day--brought back some of the color to
Beatrice's cheeks and a little of the light to her eyes. She
began to talk something in the old fashion. She avoided,
however, any mention of that other supper they had had together.
As time went on, the professor, who had drunk the best part of
two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, became
almost negligible. Tavernake leaned across the table.
"Beatrice," he whispered, "you are not looking well. I am afraid
that life is getting harder with you."
She shook her head.
"I am doing what I must," she answered. "Please don't sympathize
with me. I am hysterical, I think, tonight. It will pass off."
"But, Beatrice," he ventured, timidly, "could one do nothing for
you? I don't like these performances, and between you and me, we
know they won't stand your father's show much longer. It will
certainly come to an end soon. Why don't you try and get back
your place at the theatre? You could still earn enough to keep
him."
"Already I have tried," she replied, sorrowfully. "My place is
filled up. You see," she added, with a forced laugh, "I have
lost some of my looks, Leonard.
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