Tavernake stopped short.

“To-night,” he declared, “is not the night for omnibuses.  We are going to have a taxicab.  I know that you are tired.”

“I should love it,” she admitted.

They hailed one and drove off.  Beatrice leaned back among the cushions and closed her eyes, her ungloved hand rested almost caressingly upon his.  He leaned forward.  There were new things in the world—­he was sure of it now, sure though they were coming to him through the mists, coming to him so vaguely that even while he obeyed he did not understand.  Her full, soft lips were slightly parted; her heavily-fringed eyelids closed; her deep brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, drooping over her ear.  His fingers suddenly clasped hers tightly.

“Beatrice!” he whispered.

She sat up with a start, her eyes questioning his, the breath coming quickly through her parted lips.

“Once you asked me to kiss you, Beatrice,” he said.  “To-night —­ I am going to.”

She made no attempt to repulse him.  He took her in his arms and kissed her.  Even in that moment he knew that he had made a mistake.  Nevertheless, he kissed her again and again, crushing her lips against his.

“Please let me go, Leonard,” she begged at last.

He obeyed at once.  He understood quite well that some strange thing had happened.  It seemed to him during those next few minutes that everything which had passed that night was a dream, that this vivid picture of a life more intense, making larger demands upon the senses than anything he had yet experienced, was a mirage, a thing which would live only in his memory, a life in which he could never take any part.  He had blundered; he had come into a new world and he had blundered.  A sense of guilt was upon him.  He had a sudden wild desire to cry out that it was Elizabeth whom he had kissed.  Beatrice was sitting upright in her place, her head turned a little away from him.  He felt that she was expecting him to speak—­that there were inevitable words which he should say.  His silence was a confession.  He would have lied but the seal was upon his lips.  So the moment passed, and Tavernake had taken another step forward towards his destiny! . . .

As he helped her out of the cab, her fingers tightened for a moment upon his hand.  She patted it gently as she passed out before him into the house, leaving the door open.  When he had paid the cabman and followed, she had disappeared.  He looked into the sitting-room; it was empty.  Overhead, he could hear her footsteps as she ascended to her room.

CHAPTER XIII

AN EVENING CALL

In the morning, when he left for the city, she was not down.  When he came home in the evening, she was gone.  Without removing his hat or overcoat, he took the letter which he found propped up on the mantelpiece and addressed to him to the window and read it.