before the sermon (which he happened to be aware was not written by Beatrice) he took an opportunity to slip out unobserved.  Not knowing where to go, he strolled down to the beach, on which there was nobody to be seen, for, as has been observed, Bryngelly slept on Sundays.  Presently, however, a man approached walking rapidly, and to all appearance aimlessly, in whom he recognised Owen Davies.  He was talking to himself while he walked, and swinging his arms.  Geoffrey stepped aside to let him pass, and as he did so was surprised and even shocked to see the change in the man.  His plump healthy-looking face had grown thin, and wore a half sullen, half pitiful expression; there were dark circles round his blue eyes, once so placid, and his hair would have been the better for cutting.  Geoffrey wondered if he had had an illness.  At that moment Owen chanced to look round and saw him.

“How do you do, Mr. Bingham?” he said.  “I heard that you were here.  They told me at the station last night.  You see this is a small place and one likes to know who comes and goes,” he added as though in excuse.

He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him.

“You do not look well, Mr. Davies,” he said.  “Have you been laid up?”

“No, no,” he answered, “I am quite right; it is only my mind that is ill.”

“Indeed,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly did look strange.  “Perhaps you live too much alone and it depresses you.”

“Yes, I live alone, because I can’t help myself.  What is a man to do, Mr. Bingham, when the woman he loves will not marry him, won’t look at him, treats him like dirt?”

“Marry somebody else,” suggested Geoffrey.

“Oh, it is easy for you to say that—­you have never loved anybody, and you don’t understand.  I cannot marry anybody else, I want her only.”

“Her?  Whom?”

“Who! why, Beatrice—­whom else could a man want to marry, if once he had seen her.  But she will not have me; she hates me.”

“Really,” said Geoffrey.

“Yes, really, and do you know why?  Shall I tell you why?  I will tell you,” and he grasped him by the arm and whispered hoarsely in his ear:  “Because she loves you, Mr. Bingham.”

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Davies,” said Geoffrey shaking his arm free, “I am not going to stand this kind of thing.  You must be off your head.”

“Don’t be angry with me,” he answered.  “It is true.  I have watched her and I know that it is true.  Why does she write to you every week, why does she always start and listen when anybody mentions your name?  Oh, Mr. Bingham,” Owen went on piteously, “be merciful—­you have your wife and lots of women to make love to if you wish—­leave me Beatrice.  If you don’t I think that I shall go crazed.  I have always loved her, ever since she was a child, and now my love travels faster and grows stronger every day, and carries me away with it like a rock rolling down a hill.  You can only bring Beatrice to shame, but I can give her everything, as much money as she wants, all that she wants, and I will make her a good husband; I will never leave her side.”