“I think,” Tavernake said, deliberately, “that there is a place a little way along here.”

They pushed their way down the Strand and entered a restaurant which Tavernake knew only by name.  A small table was found for them and Beatrice looked about with delight.

“Isn’t this jolly!” she exclaimed, taking off her gloves.  “Why, there are five or six of the girls from the theatre here already.  There are two, see, at the corner table, and the fair-haired girl —­she is just behind me in the chorus.”

Tavernake glanced around.  The young women whom she pointed out were all escorted by men who were scrupulously attired in evening dress.  She seemed to read his thoughts as she laughed at him.

“You stupid boy,” she said.  “You don’t suppose that I want to be like them, do you?  There are lots of things it’s delightful to look on at, and that’s all.  Isn’t this fish good?  I love this place.”

Tavernake looked around him with an interest which he took no pains to conceal.  Certainly the little groups of people by whom they were surrounded on every side had the air of finding some zest in life which up to the present, at any rate, had escaped him.  They came streaming in, finding friends everywhere, laughing and talking, insisting upon tables in impossible places, calling out greetings to acquaintances across the room, chaffing the maitre d’h“tel who was hastening from table to table.  The gathering babel of voices was mingled every now and then with the popping of corks, and behind it all were the soft strains of a very seductive little band, perched up in the balcony.  Tavernake felt the color mounting into his cheeks.  It was true:  there was something here which was new to him!

“Beatrice,” he asked her suddenly, “have you ever drunk champagne?”

She laughed at him.

“Often, my dear brother,” she answered.  “Why?”

“I never have,” he confessed.  “We are going to have some now.”

She would have checked him but he had summoned a waiter imperiously and given his order.

“My dear Leonard,” she protested, “this is shocking extravagance.”

“Is it?” he replied.  “I don’t care.  Tell me about the theatre.  Were they kind to you there?  Will you be able to keep your place?”

“The girls were all much nicer than I expected,” she told him, “and the musical director said that my voice was much too good for the chorus.  Oh, I do hope that they will keep me!”

“They would be idiots if they didn’t,” he declared, vigorously.  “You sing better and you dance more gracefully and to me you seemed much prettier than any one else there.”

She laughed into his eyes.

“My dear brother,” she exclaimed, “your education is progressing indeed!  It is positively the first evening I have ever heard you attempt to make pretty speeches, and you are quite an adept already.”

“I don’t know about that,” he protested.  “I suppose it never occurred to me before that you were good-looking,” he added, examining her critically, “or I dare say I should have told you so.  You see, one doesn’t notice these things in an ordinary way.  Lots of other people must have told you so, though.”