But Beatrice leant for a moment against the wall and shut her eyes to think.  Oh, she saw it all—­the great posters with her name and Geoffrey’s on them, the shameless pictures of her in his arms, the sickening details, the letters of the outraged matrons, the “Mothers of ten,” and the moral-minded colonels—­all, all!  She heard the prurient scream of every male Elizabeth in England; the allusions in the House—­the jeers, the bitter attacks of enemies and rivals.  Then Lady Honoria would begin her suit, and it would all be dragged up afresh, and Geoffrey’s fault would be on every lip, till he was ruined.  For herself she did not care; but could she bring this on one whose only crime was that she had learned to love him?  No, no; but neither could she marry this hateful man.  And yet what escape was there?  She flung herself upon her woman’s wit, and it did not fail her.  In a few seconds she had thought it all out and made up her mind.

“How can I answer you at a moment’s notice, Mr. Davies?” she said.  “I must have time to think it over.  To threaten such revenge upon me is not manly, but I know that you love me, and therefore I excuse it.  Still, I must have time.  I am confused.”

“What, another year?  No, no,” he said.  “You must answer.”

“I do not ask a year or a month.  I only ask for one week.  If you will not give me that, then I will defy you, and you may do your worst.  I cannot answer now.”

This was a bold stroke, but it told.  Mr. Davies hesitated.

“Give the girl a week,” said her father to him.  “She is not herself.”

“Very well; one week, no more,” said he.

“I have another stipulation to make,” said Beatrice, “You are all to swear to me that for that week no word of this will pass your mouths; that for that week I shall not be annoyed or interfered with, or spoken to on the subject, not by one of you.  If at the end of it I still refuse to accept your terms, you can do your worst, but till then you must hold your hand.”

Owen Davies hesitated; he was suspicious.

“Remember,” Beatrice went on, raising her voice, “I am a desperate woman.  I may turn at bay, and do something which you do not expect, and that will be very little to the advantage of any of you.  Do you swear?”

“Yes,” said Owen Davies.

Then Beatrice looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth looked at her.  She saw that the matter had taken a new form.  She saw what her jealous folly had hitherto hidden from her—­that Beatrice did not mean to marry Owen Davies, that she was merely gaining time to execute some purpose of her own.  What this might be Elizabeth cared little so that it did not utterly extinguish chances that at the moment seemed faint enough.  She did not want to push matters against her sister, or her lover Geoffrey, beyond the boundary of her own interests.  Beatrice should have her week, and be free from all interference so far as she was concerned.  She realised now that it was too late how great had been her error.  Oh, if only she had sought Beatrice’s confidence at first!  But it had seemed to her impossible that she would really throw away such an opportunity in life.