“I think,” he said, “that you will agree with me about this vintage.  Beatrice, this is what will bring color into your cheeks.  My little girl,” he continued, turning to Tavernake, “will soon need a holiday.  I am hoping presently to be able to arrange a short tour by myself, and if so, I shall send her to the seaside.  Now I want you particularly to try the fish salad —­the second dish there.  Beatrice, let me help you.”

Presently the orchestra began to play.  The warmth of the room, the wine and the food—­Tavernake had a horrible idea once that she had eaten nothing that day—­brought back some of the color to Beatrice’s cheeks and a little of the light to her eyes.  She began to talk something in the old fashion.  She avoided, however, any mention of that other supper they had had together.  As time went on, the professor, who had drunk the best part of two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, became almost negligible.  Tavernake leaned across the table.

“Beatrice,” he whispered, “you are not looking well.  I am afraid that life is getting harder with you.”

She shook her head.

“I am doing what I must,” she answered.  “Please don’t sympathize with me.  I am hysterical, I think, tonight.  It will pass off.”

“But, Beatrice,” he ventured, timidly, “could one do nothing for you?  I don’t like these performances, and between you and me, we know they won’t stand your father’s show much longer.  It will certainly come to an end soon.  Why don’t you try and get back your place at the theatre?  You could still earn enough to keep him.”

“Already I have tried,” she replied, sorrowfully.  “My place is filled up.  You see,” she added, with a forced laugh, “I have lost some of my looks, Leonard.  I am thinner, too.  Of course, I shall be all right presently, but it’s rather against me at these west-end places.”

Again he felt that pain at his heart.  He was sure now that he was beginning to understand!

“Beatrice,” he whispered, “give it up—­marry me I will take care of him.”

The flush of color faded from her cheeks.  She shivered a little and looked at him piteously.

“Leonard,” she pleaded, “you mustn’t.  I really am not very strong just now.  We have finished with all that—­it distresses me.”

“But I mean it,” he begged.  “Somehow, I have felt all sorts of things since we came in here.  I think of that night, and I believe—­I do believe that what came to me before was madness.  It was not the same.”

She was trembling now.

“Leonard,” she implored, “if you care for me at all, be quiet.  Father will turn round directly and I can’t bear it.  I shall be your very faithful friend; I shall think of you through the long days before we meet again, but don’t—­don’t spoil this last evening.”

The professor turned round, his face mottled, his eyes moist, a great good-humor apparent in his tone.