pass it on to you."

"This reminds me," the professor declared, "of the old days. I feel sure
that this is going to be a thoroughly enjoyable evening. We shall think
of it often, Mr. Tavernake, when you lie sleeping under the stars. Why,
what a wonderful thing these taxicabs are! You see, we have arrived."

They secured a small table in a corner at Imano's, and Tavernake found
himself curiously moved as he watched Beatrice take off her worn and
much mended gloves and look around uneasily at the other guests. Her
clothes were indeed shabby, and there were hollows now in her cheeks.

Again he felt that pain, a pain for which he could not account. Suddenly
America seemed so far away, the loneliness of the great continent became
an actual and appreciable thing. The professor was very much occupied
ordering the supper. Tavernake leaned across the table.

"Do you remember our first supper here, Beatrice?" he asked.

She nodded, with an attempt at brightness which was a little pitiful.

"Yes," she replied, "I remember it quite well. And now, please, Leonard,
don't talk to me again until I have had a glass of wine. I am tired and
worn out, that is all."

Even Tavernake knew that she was struggling against the tears which
already dimmed her eyes. He filled her glass himself. The professor set
his own down empty with the satisfied smile of a connoisseur.

"I think," he said, "that you will agree with me about this vintage.
Beatrice, this is what will bring color into your cheeks. My little
girl," he continued, turning to Tavernake, "will soon need a holiday. I
am hoping presently to be able to arrange a short tour by myself, and if
so, I shall send her to the seaside. Now I want you particularly to try
the fish salad--the second dish there. Beatrice, let me help you."

Presently the orchestra began to play. The warmth of the room, the wine
and the food--Tavernake had a horrible idea once that she had eaten
nothing that day--brought back some of the color to Beatrice's cheeks
and a little of the light to her eyes. She began to talk something in
the old fashion. She avoided, however, any mention of that other supper
they had had together. As time went on, the professor, who had drunk the
best part of two bottles of wine and was talking now to a friend, became
almost negligible. Tavernake leaned across the table.

"Beatrice," he whispered, "you are not looking well. I am afraid that
life is getting harder with you."

She