r Beatrice, he looked up at the entrance of the Milan Court;
he lunched alone, and with a curious mixture of feelings, at the little
restaurant where he had supped with Beatrice. It was over, that part
of his life, over and finished. Yet, with his natural truthfulness, he
never attempted to disguise from himself the pain at his heart. Three
times in one day he found himself, under some pretext or another, in
Imano's Restaurant. Once, in the middle of the street, he burst into a
fit of laughter. It was while Pritchard was in London, and he asked him
a question.

"Pritchard," he remarked, "you area man of experience. Did any one ever
care for two women at the same time?"

Pritchard removed his cigar from his teeth and stared at his companion.

"Why, my young friend," he replied, "I've found no trouble myself in
being fond of a dozen."

Tavernake smiled and said no more. Pritchard was one of the good fellows
of the world, but there were things which were hidden from him.
Yet Tavernake, who had fallen into a habit, during his solitude, of
analyzing his sensations, was puzzled by this one circumstance, that
when he thought of Elizabeth, though his heart never failed to beat
more quickly, the sense of shame generally stole over him; and when he
thought of Beatrice, a curious loneliness, a loneliness that brought
with it a pain, seemed suddenly to make the hours drag and his pleasures
flavorless. For two days he was puzzled. Then his habit of taking long
walks helped him toward a solution. In a small outlying music-hall in
the east-end of London, he saw the same announcement that he had noticed
in the Norfolk newspaper,--"Professor Franklin" in large type, and "Miss
Beatrice Franklin" in small.

That night he attended the music-hall. The scene was practically a
repetition of the one in Norwich, only with additions. The professor's
bombastic performance met with scarcely any applause. Its termination
was, indeed, interrupted by catcalls and whistles from the gallery.
Beatrice's songs, on the other hand, were applauded more vociferously
than ever. She had hard work to avoid a third encore.

At the end of the performance, Tavernake made his way to the stage-door
and waited. The neighborhood was an unsavory one, and the building
itself seemed crowded in among a row of shops of the worst order,
fish stalls, and a glaring gin palace. Long before Beatrice came out,
Tavernake could hear the professor's voice down the covered pas