“Tell, me, Beatrice,” he begged, “is it because you don't like me well enough that you won't listen to what I ask?”
For a moment she half closed her eyes as though in pain. Then she laughed, not perhaps very naturally. They were standing now by the door of the public house.
“Leonard,” she said, “you are very young in years but you are a baby in experience. Mind, there are other reasons why I could not—would not dream of marrying you, other reasons which are absolutely sufficient, but—do you know that you have asked me twice and you have never once said that you cared, that you have never once looked as though you cared? No, don't, please,” she interrupted, “don't explain anything. You see, a woman always knows—too well, sometimes.”
She nodded, and passed in through the swinging-doors. Standing out there in the narrow, crooked street, Tavernake heard the clapping and applause which greeted her entrance, he heard her father's voice. Some one struck a note at the piano—she was going to sing. Very slowly he turned away and walked down the cobbled hill.
CHAPTER IV. PRITCHARD'S GOOD NEWS
Late in the afternoon of the following day, Ruth came home from the village and found Tavernake hard at work on his boat. She put down her basket and stopped by his side.
“So you are back again,” she remarked.
“Yes, I am back again.”
“And nothing has happened?”