ake," 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 passed the next table, Elizabeth
leaned over to him. Her eyes pleaded with his almost passionately.

"Dear Leonard," she whispered, "you must--you must come and see me.
I shall stay in between four and six every evening this week. The
Delvedere, remember."

"Thank you very much," Tavernake answered. "I shall not forget."

CHAPTER IX. FOR ALWAYS

Once again it seemed to Beatrice that history was repeating itself.
The dingy, oblong dining-room, with its mosquito netting, stained
tablecloth, and hard cane chairs, expanded until she fancied herself
in the drawing-room of Blenheim House. Between the landladies there
was little enough to choose. Mrs. Raithby Lawrence, notwithstanding her
caustic tongue and suspicious nature, had at least made some