“Undutiful behavior, that’s what I call it—­undutiful!”

They emerged into the street, the professor very much the same as usual; Beatrice paler, with a pathetic droop about her mouth.  Tavernake came eagerly forward.

“Beatrice!” he cried, holding out his hand.

The professor drew back.  Beatrice stood still,—­for a moment it seemed as though she were about to faint.  Tavernake grasped her hands.

“I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, clumsily.  “I ought not to have come up like that.”

She smiled a little wan smile.

“I am quite all right,” she replied, “only the heat inside was rather trying, and even out here the atmosphere isn’t too good, is it?  How did you find us out?”

“By chance again,” Tavernake answered.  “I have news.  May I walk with you a few steps?”

She glanced timidly toward her father.  The professor was holding aloof in dignified silence.

“Perhaps,” Tavernake said quickly, “you would take supper with me?  I am going abroad, and I should like to say good-bye properly.  A bottle of champagne and some supper.  What do you say, Professor?”

The professor suffered his features to relax.

“A very admirable idea,” he declared.  “Where shall we go?”

“Is it too late to get to Imano’s?” Tavernake suggested.

The professor hesitated.

“A taxicab,” he remarked, “would do it, if—­”

He paused, and Tavernake smiled.

“A taxicab it shall be,” he decided.  “I am in funds just for the moment.  Come along, both of you, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He made her take his arm, although her fingers did no more than touch his coat sleeve.

“Pritchard came and dug me out,” he continued.  “I am going abroad with him.  It’s sort of prospecting in some new country at the back of British Columbia.  We see what we can find and then go to a financier’s and start companies, mining companies and oil fields—­anything.  I am off in a week.”

Beatrice half closed her eyes.  They had hailed a passing cab and she sank back among the cushions with a sigh of relief.

“Dear Leonard,” she murmured, “I am so glad, so very happy for your sake.  This is the sort of thing which I hoped would happen.”

“And now tell me about yourselves,” he went on.

There was a sudden silence.  Tavernake was conscious that Beatrice’s clothes were distinctly shabbier, that the professor’s hat was shiny.  The professor cleared his throat.

“I do not wish,” he said, “to intrude our private matters upon one who, although I will not call him a stranger, is assuredly not one of our old friends.  At the same time, I admit that a little trouble has arisen between Beatrice and myself, and we were discussing it at the moment you arrived.  I shall appeal to you now.  As an unprejudiced member of the audience to-night, Mr. Tavernake, you will give me your honest opinion?”