“There was never a time in my life,” she continued softly, “when I felt that I needed a friend more.  I am afraid that my sister has prejudiced you against me, Mr. Tavernake.  Beatrice is very young, and the young are not always sympathetic, you know.  They do not make allowances, they do not understand.”

“Why did you tell Mr. Dowling things which were not true?” he asked bluntly.

She sighed, and looked down at the handkerchief with which she had been toying.

“It was a very silly piece of conceit,” she admitted, “but, you see, I had to tell him something.”

“Why did you come to the office at all?” he continued.

“Do you really want to know that?” she whispered softly.

“Well,—­”

“I will tell you,” she went on suddenly.  “It sounds foolish, in a way, and yet it wasn’t really, because, you see,”—­she smiled at him—­” I was anxious about Beatrice.  I saw you come out of the office that morning, and I recognized you at once.  I knew that it was you who had been with Beatrice.  I made an excuse about the house to come and see whether I could find you out.”

Tavernake, in whom the vanity was not yet born, missed wholly the significance of her smile, her trifling hesitation.

“All that,” he declared, “is no reason why you should have told Mr. Dowling that your husband was a millionaire and had given you carte blanche about taking a house.”

“Did I mention—­my husband?”

“Distinctly,” he assured her.

For the first time she had faltered in her speech.  Tavernake felt that she herself was shaken by some emotion.  Her eyes for a moment were strangely-lit; something had come into her face which he did not understand.  Then it passed.  The delightful smile, half deprecating, half appealing, once more parted her lips; the gleam of horror no longer shone in her blue eyes.

“I am always so foolish about money,” she declared, “so ignorant that I never know how I stand, but really I think that I have plenty, and a hundred or two more or less for rent didn’t seem to matter much.”

It was a point of view, this, which Tavernake utterly failed to comprehend.  He looked at her in surprise.

“I suppose,” he protested, “you know how much a year you have to live on?”

She shook her head.

“It seems to vary all the time,” she sighed.  “There are so many complications.”

He looked at her in amazement.

“After all,” he admitted, “you don’t look as though you had much of a head for figures.”

“If only I had some one to help me!” she murmured.

Tavernake moved uneasily in his chair.  His sense of danger was growing.

“If you will excuse me now,” he said, “I think that I must be getting back.  I am an employee at Dowling, Spence & Company’s, you know, and my time is not quite my own.  I only came because I promised to.”