Geoffrey threw himself back in his chair, pushed the dark hair from his brow, and pretended to listen.  But in a minute his mind was far away.  Heavens, how tired he was!  Well, there would be rest for a few days—­till Tuesday, when he had a matter that must be attended to—­the House had risen and so had the courts.  What should he do with himself?  Honoria wished to go and stay with her brother, Lord Garsington, and, for a wonder, to take Effie with her.  He did not like it, but he supposed that he should have to consent.  One thing was, he would not go.  He could not endure Garsington, Dunstan, and all their set.  Should he run down to Bryngelly?  The temptation was very great; that would be happiness indeed, but his common sense prevailed against it.  No, it was better that he should not go there.  He would leave Bryngelly alone.  If Beatrice wished him to come she would have said so, and she had never even hinted at such a thing, and if she had he did not think that he would have gone.  But he lacked the heart to go anywhere else.  He would stop in town, rest, and read a novel, for Geoffrey, when he found time, was not above this frivolous occupation.  Possibly, under certain circumstances, he might even have been capable of writing one.  At that moment his clerk entered, and handed him a slip of paper with something written on it.  He opened it idly and read: 

“Revd.  Mr. Granger to see you.  Told him you were engaged, but he said he would wait.”

Geoffrey started violently, so violently that both the solicitor and the obstinate farmer looked up.

“Tell the gentleman that I will see him in a minute,” he said to the retreating clerk, and then, addressing the farmer, “Well, sir, I have said all that I have to say.  I cannot advise you to continue this action.  Indeed, if you wish to do so, you must really direct your solicitor to retain some other counsel, as I will not be a party to what can only mean a waste of money.  Good afternoon,” and he rose.

The farmer was convoyed out grumbling.  In another moment Mr. Granger entered, dressed in a somewhat threadbare suit of black, and his thin white hair hanging, as usual, over his eyes.  Geoffrey glanced at him with apprehension, and as he did so noticed that he had aged greatly during the last seven months.  Had he come to tell him some ill news of Beatrice—­that she was ill, or dead, or going to be married?

“How do you do, Mr. Granger?” he said, as he stretched out his hand, and controlling his voice as well as he could.  “How are you?  This is a most unexpected pleasure.”

“How do you do, Mr. Bingham?” answered the old man, while he seated himself nervously in a chair, placing his hat with a trembling hand upon the floor beside him.  “Yes, thank you, I am pretty well, not very grand—­worn out with trouble as the sparks fly upwards,” he added, with a vague automatic recollection of the scriptural quotation.

“I hope that Miss Elizabeth and Be—­that your daughters are well also,” said Geoffrey, unable to restrain his anxiety.