“I am looking forward to seeing your performance this evening,” Tavernake said politely.  “In the meantime—­”

“I know what you are thinking of,” the professor interrupted.  “Well, well, give me your arm and we will walk down to the hall together.  My friends,” the professor added, turning round, “I wish you all a good-night!”

Then the door was pushed half-way open and Tavernake’s heart gave a jump.  It was Beatrice who stood there, very pale, very tired, and much thinner even than the Beatrice of the boardinghouse, but still Beatrice.

“Father,” she exclaimed, “do you know that it is nearly—­”

Then she saw Tavernake and said no more.  She seemed to sway a little, and Tavernake, taking a quick step forward, grasped her by the hands.

“Dear sister,” he cried, “you have been ill!”

She was herself again almost in a moment.

“Ill?  Never in my life,” she replied.  “Only I have been hurrying—­we are late already for the performance—­and seeing you there, well, it was quite a shock, you know.  Walk down with us and tell me all about it.

Tell us what you are doing here—­or rather, don’t talk for a moment!  It is all so amazing.”

They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the professor walking in the middle of the roadway, swinging his cane, a very imposing and wonderful figure, with the tails of his frock-coat streaming in the wind, his long hair only half-hidden by his hat.  He hummed a tune to himself and affected not to take any notice of the other two.  Then Tavernake suddenly realized that he had done a cowardly action in leaving her without a word.

“There is so much to ask,” she began at last, “but you have come back.”

She looked at his workman’s clothes.

“What have you been doing?” she asked, sharply.

“Working,” Tavernake answered, “good work, too.  I am the better for it.  Don’t mind my clothes, Beatrice.  I have been mad for a time, but after all it has been a healthy madness.”

“It was a strange thing that you did,” she said,—­“you disappeared.”

He nodded.

“Some day,” he told her, “I may, perhaps, be able to make you understand.  Just now I don’t think that I could.”

“It was Elizabeth?” she whispered, softly.

“It was Elizabeth,” he admitted.

They said no more then till they reached the hall.  She stopped at the door and put out her hand timidly.

“I shall see you afterwards?” she ventured.

“Do you mind my coming to the performance?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“A few moments ago,” she remarked, smiling, “I was dreading your coming.  Now I think that you had better.  It will be all over at ten o’clock, and I shall look for you outside.  You are living in Norwich?”

“I shall be here for to-night, at any rate,” he answered.

“Very well, then,” she said, “afterwards we will have a talk.”