Tavernake shrugged his shoulders.

“I had to have it,” he said simply.

“The power of the purse again!” she laughed.  “Now that you are here, I don’t believe that you are a bit glad to see me.  Are you?”

He did not answer for a moment.  He was thinking of that vigil upon the Embankment, of the long walk home, of the battle with himself, the continual striving to tear from his heart this new thing, for which, with a curious and most masculine inconsistency, he persisted in holding her responsible.

“You know, Leonard,” she continued, getting up abruptly and beginning to make the tea, “I believe that you are angry with me.  If you are, all I can say is that you are a very foolish person.  I had to come away.  Can’t you see that?”

“I cannot,” he answered stolidly.

She sighed.

“You are not a reasonable person,” she declared.  “I suppose it is because you have led such a queer life, and had no womenfolk to look after you.  You don’t understand.  It was absurd, in a way, that I should ever have called myself your sister, that we should even have attempted such a ridiculous experiment.  But after—­after the other night—­”

“Can’t we forget that?” he interrupted.

She raised her eyes and looked at him.

“Can you?” she asked.

There was a curious, almost a pleading earnestness in her tone.  Her eyes had something new to say, something which, though it failed to stir his blood, made him vaguely uncomfortable.  Nevertheless, he answered her without hesitation.

“Yes,” he replied, “I could forget it.  I will promise to forget it.”

It was unaccountable, but he almost fancied that he saw this new thing pass from her face, leaving her pale and tremulous.  She looked away again and busied herself with the tea-caddy, but the fingers which held the spoon were shaking a little.

“Oh, I suppose I could forget,” she said, “but it would be very difficult for either of us to behave as though it had never happened.  Besides, it really was an impossible situation, you know,” she went on, looking down into the tea-caddy.  “It is much better for me to be here with Annie.  You can come and see me now and then and we can still be very good friends.”

Tavernake was annoyed.  He said nothing, and Beatrice, glancing up, laughed at his gloomy expression.

“You certainly are,” she declared, “the most impossible, the most primitive person I ever met.  London isn’t Arcadia, you know, and you are not my brother.  Besides, you were such an autocrat.  You didn’t even like my going out to supper with Mr. Grier.”

“I hate the fellow!” Tavernake admitted.  “Are you seeing much of him?”

“He took us all out to supper last night,” she replied.  “I thought it was very kind of him to ask me.”

“Kind, indeed!  Does he want to marry you?” Tavernake demanded.