Part 63 (1/2)

”I have been in a country where one forgets,” he answered. ”I think that I have thrown the knapsack of my follies away. I think that it is buried. There are some things which I do not forget, but they are scarcely to be spoken of.”

”You are a strange young man,” she said. ”Was I wrong, or were you not once in love with me?”

”I was terribly in love with you,” Tavernake confessed.

”Yet you tore up my cheque and flung yourself away when you found out that my standard of morals was not quite what you had expected,” she murmured. ”Haven't you got over that quixoticism a little, Leonard?”

He drew a deep sigh.

”I am thankful to say,” he declared, earnestly, ”that I have not got over it, that, if anything, my prejudices are stronger than ever.”

She sat for a moment quite still, and her face had become hard and expressionless. She was looking past him, past the line of lights, out into the blue darkness.

”Somehow,” she said, softly, ”I always prayed that you might remember.

You were the one true thing I had ever met, you were in earnest. It is past, then?”

”It is past,” Tavernake answered, bravely.

The music of a Hungarian waltz came floating down to them. She half closed her eyes. Her head moved slowly with the melody. Tavernake looked away.

”Will you come and see me just once?” she asked, suddenly. ”I am staying at the Delvedere, in Forty-Second Street.”

”Thank you very much,” Tavernake replied. ”I do not know how long I shall be in New York. If I am here for a few days, I shall take my chance at finding you at home.”

He bowed, and returned to Pritchard, who welcomed him with a quiet smile.

”You're wise, Tavernake,” he said, softly. ”I could hear no words, but I know that you have been wise. Between you and me,” he added, in a lower tone, ”she is going downhill. She is in with the wrong lot here. She can't seem to keep away from them. They are on the very fringe of Bohemia, a great deal nearer the arm of the law than makes for respectable society. The man to whom I saw you introduced is a millionaire one day and a thief the next. They're none of them any good.

Did you notice, too, that she is wearing sham jewelry? That always looks bad.”

”No, I didn't notice,” Tavernake answered.

He was silent for a moment. Then he leaned a little forward.

”I wonder,” he asked, ”do you know anything about her sister?”

Pritchard finished his wine and knocked the ash from his cigar.

”Not much,” he replied. ”I believe she had a very hard time. She took on the father, you know, the old professor, and did her best to keep him straight. He died about a year ago and Miss Beatrice tried to get back into the theatre, but she'd missed her chance. Theatrical business has been shocking in London. I heard she'd come out here. Wherever she is, she keeps right away from that sort of set,” he wound up, moving his head towards Elizabeth's friends.

”I wonder if she is in New York,” Tavernake said, with a strange thrill at his heart.

Pritchard made no reply. His eyes were fixed upon the little group at the next table. Elizabeth was leaning back in her chair. She seemed to have abandoned the conversation. Her eyes were always seeking Tavernake's. Pritchard rose to his feet abruptly.

”It's time we were in bed,” he declared. ”Remember the meeting to-morrow.”

Tavernake rose to his feet. As they pa.s.sed the next table, Elizabeth leaned over to him. Her eyes pleaded with his almost pa.s.sionately.

”Dear Leonard,” she whispered, ”you must--you must come and see me.