Beatrice threw her head back and laughed.
“My dear brother,” she protested, “it was a tremendous compliment. You must remember that it was entirely through him, too, that I got the engagement. Four pounds a week I am going to have. Just think of it!”
“Four pounds a week is all very well,” Tavernake admitted. “It seems a great deal of money to earn like that. But I don't think you ought to go out to supper with any one whom you know so slightly.”
“Dear prig! You know, you are a shocking prig, Leonard.”
“Am I?” he answered, without offence, and with the air of one seriously considering the subject.
“Of course you are. How could you help it, living the sort of life you've led all your days? Never mind, I like you for it. I don't know whether I want to go out to supper with anybody—I really haven't decided yet—but if I did, it would certainly be better for me to go with Mr. Grier, because he can do me no end of good at the theatre, if he likes.”
Tavernake was silent for several moments. He was conscious of feeling something which he did not altogether understand. He only knew that it involved a strong and unreasonable dislike to Mr. Grier. Then he remembered that he was her brother, that he had the right to speak with authority.
“I hope that you will not go out to supper with any one,” he said.
She began to laugh but checked herself.
“Well,” she remarked, “that sounds very terrible. Shall we take a 'bus? To tell you the truth, I am dying of hunger. We rehearsed for two hours before the performance, and I ate nothing but a sandwich—I was so excited.”