She clapped her hands.
“And you mean it, too!” she exclaimed. “There is just the same delightfully convincing note in your tone. I am sure that you mean it. Please go on adoring me, Mr. Tavernake. I have no one who interests me at all just now. There is an Italian Count who wants to marry me, but he is terribly poor; and a young Australian, who follows me everywhere, but I am not sure about him. There is an English boy, too, who is going to commit suicide if I don't say 'yes' to him this week. On the whole, I think I am rather sorry that people know I am a widow. Tell me, Mr. Tavernake, are you going to adore me, too?”
“I don't think so,” Tavernake answered. “I rather believe that I am cured.”
She shrugged her shoulders and laughed musically.
“But you say that you still think I am beautiful,” she went on, “and I am sure my clothes are perfect—they came straight from Paris. I hope you appreciate this lace,” she added, drawing it through her fingers. “My figure is just as good, too, isn't it?”
She stood up and turned slowly round. Then she sat down suddenly, taking his hand in hers.
“Please don't say that you think I have grown less attractive,” she begged.
“As regards your personal attractions,” Tavernake replied, “I imagine that they are at least as great as ever. If you want the truth, I think that the reason I do not adore you any longer is because I saw your sister last night.”
“Saw Beatrice!” she exclaimed. “Where?”
“She was singing at a miserable east-end music-hall so that her father might find some sort of employment,” Tavernake said. “The people only forbore to hiss her father's turn for her sake. She goes about the country with him. Heaven knows what they earn, but it must be little enough! Beatrice is shabby and thin and pale. She is devoting the best years of her life to what she imagines to be her duty.”