“Leonard,” she implored, “if you care for me at all, be quiet. Father will turn round directly and I can't bear it. I shall be your very faithful friend; I shall think of you through the long days before we meet again, but don't—don't spoil this last evening.”
The professor turned round, his face mottled, his eyes moist, a great good-humor apparent in his tone.
“Well, I must say,” he declared, “that this has been a most delightful evening. I feel immensely better, and you, too, I hope, Beatrice?”
She nodded, smiling.
“I trust that when Mr. Tavernake returns,” the professor continued, “he will give us the opportunity of entertaining him in much the same manner. It will give me very much pleasure, also Beatrice. And if, sir,” he proceeded, “during your stay in New York you will mention my name at the Goat's Club, or the Mosquito Club, you will, I think, find yourself received with a hospitality which will surprise you.”
Tavernake thanked him and paid the bill. They walked slowly down the room, and Tavernake was curiously reluctant to release the little hand which clasped his.
“I have kept this to the last,” Beatrice said, in a low tone. “Elizabeth is in London.”
He was curiously unmoved.
“Yes?” he murmured.
“I should like you—I think it would be well for you to go and see her,” she went on. “You know, Leonard, you were such a strange person in those days. You may imagine things. You may not realize where you are. I think that you ought to go and see her now, now that you have lived through some suffering, now that you understand things better. Will you?”