Part 7 (2/2)

”Whatever happens to me,” she said, ”I shall never forget that you have been very kind.”

She hesitated for a moment and then she seemed to realize more completely how really kind he had been. There had been a certain crude delicacy about his actions which she had under-appreciated. She leaned towards him. There was nothing left this morning of that disfiguring sullenness. Her mouth was soft; her eyes were bright, almost appealing.

If Tavernake had been a judge of woman's looks, he must certainly have found her attractive.

”I am very, very grateful to you,” she continued, holding out her hand.

”I shall always remember how kind you were. Good-bye!”

”You are not going?” he asked.

She laughed.

”Why, you didn't imagine that you had taken the care of me upon your shoulders for the rest of your life?” she demanded.

”No, I didn't imagine that,” he answered. ”At the same time, what plans have you made? Where are you going?”

”Oh! I shall think of something,” she declared, indifferently.

He caught the gleam in her eyes, the sudden hopelessness which fell like a cloud upon her face. He spoke promptly and with decision.

”As a matter of fact,” he remarked, ”you do not know yourself. You are just going to drift out of this place and very likely find your way to a seat on the Embankment again.”

Her lips quivered. She had tried to be brave but it was hard.

”Not necessarily,” she replied. ”Something may turn up.”

He leaned a little across the table towards her.

”Listen,” he said, deliberately, ”I will make a proposition to you.

It has come to me during the last few minutes. I am tired of the boarding-house and I wish to leave it. The work which I do at night is becoming more and more important. I should like to take two rooms somewhere. If I take a third, would you care to call yourself what I called you to the charwoman last night--my sister? I should expect you to look after the meals and my clothes, and help me in certain other ways. I cannot give you much of a salary,” he continued, ”but you would have an opportunity during the daytime of looking out for some work, if that is what you want, and you would at least have a roof and plenty to eat and drink.”

She looked at him in blank amazement. It was obvious that his proposition was entirely honest.

”But, Mr. Tavernake,” she protested, ”you forget that I am not really your sister.”

”Does that matter?” he asked, without flinching. ”I think you understand the sort of person I am. You would have nothing to fear from any admiration on my part--or anything of that sort,” he added, with some show of clumsiness. ”Those things do not come in my life. I am ambitious to get on, to succeed and become wealthy. Other things I do not even think about.”

She was speechless. After a short pause, he went on.

”I am proposing this arrangement as much for my own sake as for yours.

I am very well read and I know most of what there is to be known in my profession. But there are other things concerning which I am ignorant.

Some of these things I believe you could teach me.”

Still speechless, she sat and looked at him for several moments.

Outside, the station now was filled with a hurrying throng on their way to the day's work. Engines were shrieking, bells ringing, the press of footsteps was unceasing. In the dark, ill-ventilated room itself there was the rattle of crockery, the yawning of discontented-looking young women behind the bar, young women with their hair still in curl-papers, as yet unprepared for their weak little a.s.saults upon the good-nature or susceptibility of their customers. A queer corner of life it seemed. She looked at her companion and realized how fragmentary was her knowledge of him. There was nothing to be gathered from his face. He seemed to have no expression. He was simply waiting for her reply, with his thoughts already half engrossed upon the business of the day.

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