“Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Bingham.  Elizabeth isn’t very grand either, complains of a pain in her chest, a little bilious perhaps—­she always is bilious in the spring.”

“And Miss Beatrice?”

“Oh, I think she’s well—­very quiet, you know, and a little pale, perhaps; but she is always quiet—­a strange woman Beatrice, Mr. Bingham, a very strange woman, quite beyond me!  I do not understand her, and don’t try to.  Not like other women at all, takes no pleasure in things seemingly; curious, with her good looks—­very curious.  But nobody understands Beatrice.”

Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief.  “And how are tithes being paid, Mr. Granger? not very grandly, I fear.  I saw that scoundrel Jones died in prison.”

Mr. Granger woke up at once.  Before he had been talking almost at random; the subject of his daughters did not greatly interest him.  What did interest him was this money question.  Nor was it very wonderful; the poor narrow-minded old man had thought about money till he could scarcely find room for anything else, indeed nothing else really touched him closely.  He broke into a long story of his wrongs, and, drawing a paper from his breast pocket, with shaking finger pointed out to Geoffrey how that his clerical income for the last six months had been at the rate of only forty pounds a year, upon which sum even a Welsh clergyman could not consider himself passing rich.  Geoffrey listened and sympathised; then came a pause.

“That’s how we’ve been getting on at Bryngelly, Mr. Bingham,” Mr. Granger said presently, “starving, pretty well starving.  It’s only you who have been making money; we’ve been sitting on the same dock-leaf while you have become a great man.  If it had not been for Beatrice’s salary—­she’s behaved very well about the salary, has Beatrice—­I am sure I don’t understand how the poor girl clothes herself on what she keeps; I know that she had to go without a warm cloak this winter, because she got a cough from it—­we should have been in the workhouse, and that’s where we shall be yet,” and he rubbed the back of his withered hand across his eyes.

Geoffrey gasped.  Beatrice with scarcely enough means to clothe herself—­Beatrice shivering and becoming ill from the want of a cloak while he lived in luxury!  It made him sick to think of it.  For a moment he could say nothing.

“I have come here—­I’ve come,” went on the old man in a broken voice, broken not so much by shame at having to make the request as from fear lest it should be refused, “to ask you if you could lend me a little money.  I don’t know where to turn, I don’t indeed, or I would not do it, Mr. Bingham.  I have spent my last pound to get here.  If you could lend me a hundred pounds I’d give you note of hand for it and try to pay it back little by little; we might take twenty pounds a year from Beatrice’s salary——­”