He had no words alone with Beatrice that afternoon.  Indeed, a certain coldness seemed to have sprung up between them.  With the almost supernatural quickness of a loving woman’s intuition, she had divined that something was passing in his mind, inimical to her most vital interests, so she shunned his company, and received his conventional advances with a politeness which was as cold as it was crushing.  This did not please Geoffrey; it is one thing (in her own interests, of course) to make up your mind heroically to abandon a lady whom you do not wish to compromise, and quite another to be snubbed by that lady before the moment of final separation.  Though he never put the idea into words or even defined it in his mind—­for Geoffrey was far too anxious and unhappy to be flippant, at any rate in thought—­he would at heart have wished her to remain the same, indeed to wax ever tenderer, till the fatal time of parting arrived, and even to show appreciation of his virtuous conduct.

But to the utter destruction of most such hands as Geoffrey held, loving women never will play according to the book.  Their conduct imperils everything, for it is obvious that it takes two to bring an affair of this nature to a dignified conclusion, even when the stakes are highest, and the matter is one of life and death.  Beatrice after all was very much of a woman, and she did not behave much better than any other woman would have done.  She was angry and suspicious, and she showed it, with the result that Geoffrey grew angry also.  It was cruel of her, he thought, considering all things.  He forgot that she could know nothing of what was in his mind, however much she might guess; also as yet he did not know the boundless depth and might of her passion for him, and all that it meant to her.  Had he realised this he would have acted very differently.

They came home and took tea, then Mr. Granger and Elizabeth made ready to go to evening service.  To Geoffrey’s dismay Beatrice did the same.  He had looked forward to a quiet walk with her—­really this was not to be borne.  Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she was ready the first, and he got a word with her.

“I did not know that you were going to church,” he said; “I thought that we might have had a walk together.  Very likely I shall have to go away early to-morrow morning.”

“Indeed,” answered Beatrice coldly.  “But of course you have your work to attend to.  I told Elizabeth that I was coming to church, and I must go; it is too sultry to walk; there will be a storm soon.”

At this moment Elizabeth came in.

“Well, Beatrice,” she said, “are you coming to church?  Father has gone on.”

Beatrice pretended not to hear, and reflected a moment.  He would go away and she would see him no more.  Could she let slip this last hour?  Oh, she could not do it!

In that moment of reflection her fate was sealed.

“No,” she answered slowly, “I don’t think that I am coming; it is too sultry to go to church.  I daresay that Mr. Bingham will accompany you.”