“Why, certainly, Mr. Clark.”
“Your father has just telephoned that he is detained at the White House, and will not be back until late.” He stopped speaking, and fingered the table ornaments; then burst out: “Miss Beatrice, why do you not take better care of yourself?”
Beatrice flushed. “I am stronger than I look. You must not always judge by appearances.”
Clark shook his head. “It does not require much intelligence to see that you are nearly worn out. Why,” leaning a little closer, “your eyes are actually red from crying.”
“You are not very complimentary,” said Beatrice, vexedly, biting her lip, “and,” drawing herself up, “just a trifle personal.”
“You mean familiar?”
Beatrice made no answer.
“Well, I plead guilty. Do not be angry with me. I am only personal because I cannot bear to see you ill—suffering.”
“Indeed, Mr. Clark, you are mistaken,” she answered lightly. “There is nothing whatever the matter with me, except the physical exhaustion which naturally follows such a tragedy. A good sleep would be my best tonic. I am going upstairs now to rest before dinner. Ring for Wilkins if you wish anything.”
As she moved towards the door Clark put out his hands beseechingly.