er, I am. I've seen you in Blackburn and Manchester, and
twice here. Just as wonderful as ever! And that young lady of yours,
Professor, begging your pardon if she is your daughter, as no doubt she
is, why, she's a nut and no mistake."

The professor sighed. He was in his element but he was getting uneasy at
the flight of time.

"My young friend," he said, "your face is not familiar to me but
I cannot refuse your kindly offer. It must be the last, however,
absolutely the last."

Then Tavernake, directed here from the music-hall, pushed open the swing
door and entered. The professor set down his glass untasted. Tavernake
came slowly across the room.

"You haven't forgotten me, then, Professor?" he remarked, holding out
his hand.

The professor welcomed him a little limply; something of the bombast had
gone out of his manner. Tavernake's arrival had reminded him of things
which he had only too easily forgotten.

"This is very surprising," he faltered, "very surprising indeed. Do you
live in these parts?"

"Not far away," Tavernake answered. "I saw your announcement in the
papers."

The professor nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I am on the war-path again. I tried resting but I
got fat and lazy, and the people wouldn't have it, sir," he continued,
recovering very quickly something of his former manner. "The number
of offers I got through my agents by every post was simply
astounding--astounding!"

"I am looking forward to seeing your performance this evening,"
Tavernake said politely. "In the meantime--"

"I know what you are thinking of," the professor interrupted. "Well,
well, give me your arm and we will walk down to the hall together.
My friends," the professor added, turning round, "I wish you all a
good-night!"

Then the door was pushed half-way open and Tavernake's heart gave a
jump. It was Beatrice who stood there, very pale, very tired, and much
thinner even than the Beatrice of the boardinghouse, but still Beatrice.

"Father," she exclaimed, "do you know that it is nearly--"

Then she saw Tavernake and said no more. She seemed to sway a little,
and Tavernake, taking a quick step forward, grasped her by the hands.

"Dear sister," he cried, "you have been ill!"

She was herself again almost in a moment.

"Ill? Never in my life," she replied. "Only I have been hurrying--we
are late already for the performance--and seeing you there, well, it was
quite a shock, you know. Walk down with us and tell me a