Not that Geoffrey, to do him justice, had any such intentions.  Most men are incapable of plots of that nature.  If they fall, it is when the voice of conscience is lost in the whirlwind of passion, and counsel is darkened by the tumultuous pleadings of the heart.  Their sin is that they will, most of them, allow themselves to be put in positions favourable to the development of these disagreeable influences.  It is not safe to light cigarettes in a powder factory.  If Geoffrey had done what he ought to have done, he would never have gone to Bryngelly, and there would have been no story to tell, or no more than there usually is.

At length Mr. Granger and his guest reached Bryngelly; there was nobody to meet them, for nobody knew that they were coming, so they walked up to the Vicarage.  It was strange to Geoffrey once more to pass by the little church through those well-remembered, wind-torn pines and see that low long house.  It seemed wonderful that all should still be just as it was, that there should be no change at all, when he himself had seen so much.  There was Beatrice’s home; where was Beatrice?

He passed into the house like a man in a dream.  In another moment he was in the long parlour where he had spent so many happy hours, and Elizabeth was greeting him.  He shook hands with her, and as he did so, noticed vaguely that she too was utterly unchanged.  Her straw-coloured hair was pushed back from the temples in the same way, the mouth wore the same hard smile, her light eyes shone with the same cold look; she even wore the same brown dress.  But she appeared to be very pleased to see him, as indeed she was, for the game looked well for Elizabeth.  Her father kissed her hurriedly, and bustled from the room to lock up his borrowed cash, leaving them together.

Somehow Geoffrey’s conversational powers failed him.  Where was Beatrice? she ought to be back from school.  It was holiday time indeed.  Could she be away?

He made an effort, and remarked absently that things seemed very unchanged at Bryngelly.

“You are looking for Beatrice,” said Elizabeth, answering his thought and not his words.  “She has gone out walking, but I think she will be back soon.  Excuse me, but I must go and see about your room.”

Geoffrey hung about a little, then he lit his pipe and strolled down to the beach, with a vague unexpressed idea of meeting Beatrice.  He did not meet Beatrice, but he met old Edward, who knew him at once.

“Lord, sir,” he said, “it’s queer to see you here again, specially when I thinks as how I saw you first, and you a dead ’un to all purposes, with your mouth open, and Miss Beatrice a-hanging on to your hair fit to pull your scalp off.  You never was nearer old Davy than you was that night, sir, nor won’t be.  And now you’ve been spared to become a Parliament man, I hears, and much good may you do there—­it will take all your time, sir—­and I think, sir, that I should like to drink your health.”