The Tempting of Tavernake | Page 7

mind listening to you," she told him, "or I will talk with you
about anything you like. There is only one subject which I cannot
discuss; that subject is myself and my own doings."
Tavernake was silent for a moment.
"That makes conversation a bit difficult," he remarked. She leaned back
in her chair.
"After this evening," she said, "I go out of your life as completely and
finally as though I had never existed. I have a fancy to take my poor
secrets with me. If you wish to talk, tell me about yourself. You have
gone out of your way to be kind to me. I wonder why. It doesn't seem
to be your role."
He smiled slowly. His face was fashioned upon broad lines and the
relaxing of his lips lightened it wonderfully. He had good teeth, clear
gray eyes, and coarse black hair which he wore a trifle long; his
forehead was too massive for good looks.
"No," he admitted, "I do not think that benevolence is one of my
characteristics."
Her dark eyes were turned full upon him; her red lips, redder than ever
they seemed against the pallor of her cheeks and her deep brown hair,
curled slightly. There was something almost insolent in her tone.
"You understand, I hope," she continued, "that you have nothing
whatever to look for from me in return for this sum which you propose
to expend for my entertainment?"

"I understand that," he replied.
"Not even gratitude," she persisted. "I really do not feel grateful to you.
You are probably doing this to gratify some selfish interest or curiosity.
I warn you that I am quite incapable of any of the proper sentiments of
life."
"Your gratitude would be of no value to me whatever," he assured her.
She was still not wholly satisfied. His complete stolidity frustrated
every effort she made to penetrate beneath the surface.
"If I believed," she went on, "that you were one of those men-- the
world is full of them, you know--who will help a woman with a
reasonable appearance so long as it does not seriously interfere with
their own comfort--"
"Your sex has nothing whatever to do with it," he interrupted. "As to
your appearance, I have not even considered it. I could not tell you
whether you are beautiful or ugly--I am no judge of these matters. What
I have done, I have done because it pleased me to do it."
"Do you always do what pleases you?" she asked.
"Nearly always."
She looked him over again attentively, with an interest obviously
impersonal, a trifle supercilious.
"I suppose," she remarked, "you consider yourself one of the strong
people of the world?"
"I do not know about that," he answered. "I do not often think about
myself."
"I mean," she explained, "that you are one of those people who struggle
hard to get just what they want in life."
His jaw suddenly tightened and she saw the likeness to Napoleon.

"I do more than struggle," he affirmed, "I succeed. If I make up my
mind to do a thing, I do it; if I make up my mind to get a thing, I get it.
It means hard work sometimes, but that is all."
For the first time, a really natural interest shone out of her eyes. The
half sulky contempt with which she had received his advances passed
away. She became at that moment a human being, self-forgetting, the
heritage of her charms--for she really had a curious but very poignant
attractiveness--suddenly evident. It was only a momentary lapse and it
was entirely wasted. Not even one of the waiters happened to be
looking that way, and Tavernake was thinking wholly of himself.
"It is a good deal to say--that," she remarked, reflectively.
"It is a good deal but it is not too much," he declared. "Every man who
takes life seriously should say it."
Then she laughed--actually laughed--and he had a vision of flashing
white teeth, of a mouth breaking into pleasant curves, of dark mirth-lit
eyes, lustreless no longer, provocative, inspiring. A vague impression
as of something pleasant warmed his blood. It was a rare thing for him
to be so stirred, but even then it was not sufficient to disturb the focus
of his thoughts.
"Tell me," she demanded, "what do you do? What is your profession or
work?"
"I am with a firm of auctioneers and estate agents," he answered
readily,--"Messrs. Dowling, Spence & Company the name is. Our
offices are in Waterloo Place."
"You find it interesting?"
"Of course," he answered. "Interesting? Why not? I work at it."
"Are you a partner?"
"No," he admitted. "Six years ago I was a carpenter; then I became an

errand boy in Mr. Dowling's office I had to learn the