There is an Italian Count who
wants to marry me, but he is terribly poor; and a young
Australian, who follows me everywhere, but I am not sure about
him. There is an English boy, too, who is going to commit
suicide if I don't say 'yes' to him this week. On the whole, I
think I am rather sorry that people know I am a widow. Tell me,
Mr. Tavernake, are you going to adore me, too?"
"I don't think so," Tavernake answered. "I rather believe that I
am cured."
She shrugged her shoulders and laughed musically.
"But you say that you still think I am beautiful," she went on,
"and I am sure my clothes are perfect--they came straight from
Paris. I hope you appreciate this lace," she added, drawing it
through her fingers. "My figure is just as good, too, isn't it?"
She stood up and turned slowly round. Then she sat down
suddenly, taking his hand in hers.
"Please don't say that you think I have grown less attractive,"
she begged.
"As regards your personal attractions," Tavernake replied, "I
imagine that they are at least as great as ever. If you want the
truth, I think that the reason I do not adore you any longer is
because I saw your sister last night."
"Saw Beatrice!" she exclaimed. "Where?"
"She was singing at a miserable east-end music-hall so that her
father might find some sort of employment," Tavernake said. "The
people only forbore to hiss her father's turn for her sake. She
goes about the country with him.
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