She shook her head.
“In London,” she said, “he would never have got out of his old habits. And then,” she went on, hesitatingly, “you understand that the public want something else besides the hypnotism—”
Tavernake interrupted her ruthlessly.
“Of course I understand,” he declared, “I was there to-night. I understood at once why you were not very anxious for me to go. The people cared nothing at all about your father's performance. They simply waited for you. You would get the same money if you went round without him.”
She nodded, a trifle shamefacedly.
“I am so afraid some one will tell him,” she confessed. “They nearly always ask me to leave out his part of the performance. They have even offered me more money if I would come alone. But you see how it is. He believes in himself, he thinks he is very clever and he believes that the public like his show. It is the only thing which helps him to keep a little self-respect. He thinks that my singing is almost unnecessary.”
Tavernake looked into that faint glimmer of miserable fire. He was conscious of a curious feeling in his throat. How little he knew of life! The pathos of what she had told him, the thought of her bravely traveling the country and singing at third-rate music-halls, never taking any credit to herself, simply that her father might still believe himself a man of talent, appealed to him irresistibly. He suddenly held out his hand.
“Poor little Beatrice!” he exclaimed. “Dear little sister!”
The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes.
“You—you mustn't,” she murmured. “Please don't!”