“Nonsense,” said Geoffrey angrily, but nevertheless he felt that Lady Honoria’s words were words of truth.  It struck him, moreover, that she must feel this strongly, or she would not have spoken in that tone.  Honoria did not pose as a household philosopher.  Still he would not draw back now.  His heart was set on seeing Beatrice.

“Am I to understand,” went on his wife, “that you still object to my staying with the Garsingtons?  I think it is a little hard if I do not make a fuss about your going to see your village paragon, that you should refuse to allow me to visit my own brother.”

Geoffrey felt that he was being bargained with.  It was degrading, but in the extremity of his folly he yielded.

“Go if you like,” he said shortly, “but if you take Effie, mind she is properly looked after, that is all,” and he abruptly left the room.

Lady Honoria looked after him, slowly nodding her handsome head.  “Ah,” she said to herself, “I have found out how to manage you now.  You have your weak point like other people, Master Geoffrey—­and it spells Beatrice.  Only you must not go too far.  I am not jealous, but I am not going to have a scandal for fifty Beatrices.  I will not allow you to lose your reputation and position.  Just imagine a man like that pining for a village girl—­she is nothing more!  And they talk about his being so clever.  Well, he always liked ladies’ society; that is his failing, and now he has burnt his fingers.  They all do sooner or later, especially these clever men.  The women flatter them, that’s it.  Of course the girl is trying to get hold of him, and she might do worse, but so surely as my name is Honoria Bingham I will put a spoke in her wheel before she has done.  Bah! and they laugh at the power of women when a man like Geoffrey, with all the world to lose, grows love-sick for a pretty face; it is a very pretty face by the way.  I do believe that if I were out of the way he would marry her.  But I am in the way, and mean to stay there.  Well, it is time to dress for dinner.  I only hope that old clown of a clergyman won’t do something ridiculous.  I shall have to apologise for him.”

Dinner-time had come; it was a quarter past eight, and the room was filled with highly bred people all more or less distinguished.  Mr. Granger had duly appeared, arrayed in his threadbare black coat, relieved, however, by a pair of Geoffrey’s dress shoes.  As might have been expected, the great folk did not seem surprised at his presence, or to take any particular notice of his attire, the fact being that such people never are surprised.  A Zulu chief in full war dress would only excite a friendly interest in their breasts.  On the contrary they recognised vaguely that the old gentleman was something out of the common run, and as such worth cultivating.  Indeed the Prime Minister, hearing casually that he was a clergyman from Wales, asked to be introduced to him, and at once fell into conversation about tithes, a subject of which Mr. Granger was thoroughly master.