“I beg your pardon,” she said in a puzzled tone, stepping forward to pass the gate.

“Beatrice!”

She gave a little cry, and clutched the railing, else she would have fallen.  One moment she stayed so, looking up towards his face that was hid in the deepening shadow—­looking with wild eyes of hope and fear and love.

“Is it you,” she said at length, “or another dream?”

“It is I, Beatrice!” he answered, amazed.

She recovered herself with an effort.

“Then why did you frighten me so?” she asked.  “It was unkind—­oh, I did not mean to say anything cross.  What did I say?  I forget.  I am so glad that you have come!” and she put her hand to her forehead and looked at him again as one might gaze at a ghost from the grave.

“Did you not expect me?” Geoffrey asked.

“Expect you? no.  No more than I expected——­” and she stopped suddenly.

“It is very odd,” he said; “I thought you knew that your father was going to ask me down.  I returned from London with him.”

“From London,” she murmured.  “I did not know; Elizabeth did not tell me anything about it.  I suppose that she forgot.”

“Here I am at any rate, and how are you?”

“Oh, well now, quite well.  There, I am all right again.  It is very wrong to frighten people in that way, Mr. Bingham,” she added in her usual voice.  “Let me pass through the gate and I will shake hands with you—­if,” she added, in a tone of gentle mockery, “one may shake hands with so great a man.  But I told you how it would be, did I not, just before we were drowned together, you know?  How is Effie?”

“Effie flourishes,” he answered.  “Do you know, you do not look very grand.  Your father told me that you had a cold in the winter,” and Geoffrey shivered as he thought of the cause.

“Oh, thank you, I have nothing to complain of.  I am strong and well.  How long do you stay here?”

“Not long.  Perhaps till Tuesday morning, perhaps till Monday.”

Beatrice sighed.  Happiness is short.  She had not brought him here, she would not have lifted a finger to bring him here, but since he had come she wished that he was going to stay longer.

“It is supper time,” she said; “let us go in.”

So they went in and ate their supper.  It was a happy meal.  Mr. Granger was in almost boisterous spirits.  It is wonderful what a difference the possession of that two hundred pounds made in his demeanour; he seemed another man.  It was true that a hundred of it must go in paying debts, but a hundred would be left, which meant at least a year’s respite for him.  Elizabeth, too, relaxed her habitual grimness; the two hundred pounds had its influence on her also, and there were other genial influences at work in her dark secret heart.  Beatrice knew nothing of the money and sat somewhat silent, but she too was happy with the wild unreal happiness that sometimes visits us in dreams.