“Mr. Tavernake,” she murmured, “do you know that you are not in the least kind to me?  Beatrice and I are sisters, after all.  Even she has admitted that.  She left me most unkindly at a critical time in my life; she misunderstood things; if I were to see her, I could explain everything.  I feel it very much that she is living apart from me in this city where we are both strangers.  I am anxious about her, Mr. Tavernake.  Does she want money?  If so, will you take her some from me?  Can’t you suggest any way in which I could help her?  Do be my friend, please, and advise me.”

Life was certainly opening out for Tavernake.  The atmosphere by which he was surrounded, which she was deliberately creating around him, was the atmosphere of an unknown world.  It was a position, this, entirely novel to him.  Nevertheless, he did his best to cope with it intelligently.  He reflected carefully before he made any reply, he refused absolutely to listen to the strange voices singing in his ears, and he delivered his decision with his usual air of finality.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that since Beatrice refuses even to let you know her whereabouts, she would not wish to accept anything from you.  It seems a pity,” he went on, the instincts of the money-saver stirring within him; “she is certainly none too well off.”

The lady on the couch sighed.

“Beatrice has at least a friend,” she murmured.  “It is a great deal to have a friend.  It is more than I have.  We are both so far from home here.  Often I am sorry that we ever left America.  England is not a hospitable country, Mr. Tavernake.”

Again this painfully literal young man spoke out what was in his mind.

“There was a gentleman in the motor-car with you the other night,” he reminded her.

She bit her lip.

“He was just an acquaintance,” she answered, “a man whom I used to know in New York, passing through London.  He called on me and asked me to go to the theatre and supper.  Why not?  I have had a terrible time during the last few months, Mr. Tavernake, and I am very lonely—­lonelier than ever since my sister deserted me.”

Tavernake began to feel, ridiculous though it seemed, that in some subtle and inexplicable fashion he was in danger.  At any rate, he was hopelessly bewildered.  He did not understand why this very beautiful lady should look at him as though they were old friends, why her eyes should appeal to him so often for sympathy, why her fingers, which a moment ago were resting lightly upon his hand, and which she had drawn away with reluctance, should have burned him like pin-pricks of fire.  The woman who wishes to allure may be as subtle as possible in her methods, but a sense of her purpose, however vague it may be, is generally communicated to her wouldbe victim.  Tavernake was becoming distinctly uneasy.  He had no vanity.  He knew from the first that this beautiful creature belonged to a world far removed from any of which he had any knowledge.  The only solution of the situation which presented itself to him was that she might be thinking of borrowing money from him!