“Father,” she said, “it doesn't matter please. I am not willing to marry Mr. Tavernake.”
The professor looked from one to the other and coughed.
“Are Mr. Tavernake's means,” he asked, “of sufficient importance to warrant his entering into matrimony?”
“I have no money at all to speak of,” Tavernake answered. “That really isn't important. I shall very soon make all that your daughter can spend.”
“I agree with my daughter, sir,” the professor declared. “The subject might well be left until such time as you have improved your position. We will dismiss it, therefore,—dismiss it at once. We will talk—”
“Father,” Beatrice interrupted, “let us talk about yourself. Don't you think you would be more contented, happier, if you were to try to arrange for a few—a few demonstrations or lectures over here, as you at first intended? I know that you must find having nothing to do such a strain upon you,” she added.
It was perhaps by accident that her eyes were fixed upon the glass which the professor was carrying to his lips. He set it down at once.
“My child,” he said, in a low tone, “I understand you.”
“No, no,” she insisted, “I didn't mean that, but you are always better when you are working. A man like you,” she went on, a little wistfully, “should not waste his talents.”
He sighed.