“Do you think that she has come by this money dishonestly?”
“I am not sure,” Beatrice murmured. “There are worse things, more terrible things even than theft.”
The practical side of Tavernake's nature was very much to the fore that morning. He began to wonder whether women, after all, strange and fascinating creatures though they were, possessed judgment which could be relied upon—whether they were not swayed too much by sentiment.
“Beatrice,” he said, “you must understand this. I have no time to raise the money elsewhere. If I don't get it from your sister, supposing she is still willing to let me have it, my chance has gone. I shall have to take a situation in some one else's office as a clerk—probably not so good a place as I held at Dowling & Spence's. On the other hand, the use of that money for a very short time would be the start of my career. All that you say is so vague. Why need I know anything about it? I met your sister in the ordinary way of business and she has made an ordinary business proposition to me, one by which she will be, incidentally, very greatly benefited. I never thought of telling you this at all, but when the time came I hated to go and draw that money from your sister without having said anything to you. So I came this morning, but I want you, if you possibly can, to look at the matter from my point of view.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she glanced at him curiously.
“Why on earth,” she asked, “should my sister make this offer to you? She isn't a fool. She doesn't usually trust strangers.”
“She trusted me, apparently,” Tavernake answered.
“Can you understand why?” Beatrice demanded.
“I think that I can,” he replied. “If one can rely upon one's perception, she is surrounded by people whom she might find agreeable companions but whom she is scarcely likely to have much confidence in. Perhaps she realized that I wasn't like them.”
“And you want very much to take this money?” she said, half to herself.