ou
think about it, Leonard?"

Tavernake, for some reason or other, was displeased.

"Would you earn much more money than by singing at these dinners?" he
asked.

"Very, very much more," she assured him.

"And you would like the life?"

She laughed softly.

"Why not? It isn't so bad. I was on the stage in New York for some time
under much worse conditions."

He remained silent for a few minutes. They had made their way into the
street now and were waiting for an omnibus.

"What did you tell him?" he asked, abruptly.

She was looking down toward the Embankment, her eyes filled once more
with the things which he could not understand.

"I have told him nothing yet," she murmured.

"You would like to accept?"

She nodded.

"I am not sure," she replied. "If only--I dared!"

CHAPTER VIII. WOMAN'S WILES

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Tavernake presented himself at the
Milan Court and inquired for Mrs. Wenham Gardner. He was sent at once to
her apartments in charge of a page. She was lying upon a sofa piled up
with cushions, wrapped in a wonderful blue garment which seemed somehow
to deepen the color of her eyes. By her side was a small table on which
was some chocolate, a bowl of roses, and a roll of newspapers. She held
out her hand toward Tavernake, but did not rise. There was something
almost spiritual about her pallor, the delicate outline of her figure,
so imperfectly concealed by the thin silk dressing-gown, the faint,
tired smile with which she welcomed him.

"You will forgive my receiving you like this, Mr. Tavernake?" she
begged. "To-day I have a headache. I have been anxious for your coming.
You must sit by my side, please, and tell me at once whether you have
seen Beatrice."

Tavernake did exactly as he was bidden. The chair toward which she had
pointed was quite close to the sofa, but there was no other unoccupied
in the room. She raised herself a little on the couch and turned towards
him. Her eyes were fixed anxiously upon his, her forehead slightly
wrinkled, her voice tremulous with eagerness.

"You have seen her?"

"I have," he admitted, looking steadily into the lining of his hat.

"She has been cruel," Elizabeth declared. "I can tell it from your face.
You have bad news for me."

"I do not know," Tavernake replied, "whether she has been cruel or not.
She refuses to allow me to tell you her address. She begged me, indeed,
to keep away from you altogether."

"Why? Did