Beatrice thanked him and blushed a little.  Vaguely it occurred to her that she must have more than a common share of beauty, when a rough man could be so impressed with it.  That was what men loved women for, their beauty, as Owen Davies loved and desired her for this same cause and this only.

Perhaps it was the same with Geoffrey—­no, she did not believe it.  He loved her for other things besides her looks.  Only if she had not been beautiful, perhaps he would not have begun to love her, so she was thankful for her eyes and hair, and form.

Could folly and infatuation go further?  This woman in the darkest hour of her bottomless and unhorizoned despair, with conscience gnawing at her heart, with present misery pressing on her breast, and shame to come hanging over her like a thunder cloud, could yet feel thankful that she had won this barren love, the spring of all her woe.  Or was her folly deep wisdom in disguise?—­is there something divine in a passion that can so override and defy the worst agonies of life?

She was at sea again now, and evening was falling on the waters softly as a dream.  Well, the letter was posted.  Would it be the last, she wondered?  It seemed as though she must write no more letters.  And what was to be done?  She would not marry Owen Davies—­never would she do it.  She could not so shamelessly violate her feelings, for Beatrice was a woman to whom death would be preferable to dishonour, however legal.  No, for her own sake she would not be soiled with that disgrace.  Did she do this, she would hold herself the vilest of the vile.  And still less would she do it for Geoffrey’s sake.  Her instinct told her what he would feel at such a thing, though he might never say a word.  Surely he would loathe and despise her.  No, that idea was done with—­utterly done with.

Then what remained to her?  She would not fly with Geoffrey, since to do so would be to ruin him.  She would not marry Owen, and not to do so would still be to ruin Geoffrey.  She was no fool, she was innocent in act, but she knew that her innocence would indeed be hard to prove—­even her own father did not believe in it, and her sister would openly accuse her to the world.  What then should she do?  Should she hide herself in some remote half-civilised place, or in London?  It was impossible; she had no money, and no means of getting any.  Besides, they would hunt her out, both Owen Davies and Geoffrey would track her to the furthest limits of the earth.  And would not the former think that Geoffrey had spirited her away, and at once put his threats into execution?  Obviously he would.  There was no hope in that direction.  Some other plan must be found or her lover would still be ruined.

So argued Beatrice, still thinking not of herself, but of Geoffrey, of that beloved one who was more to her than all the world, more, a thousand times, than her own safety or well-being.  Perhaps she overrated the matter.  Owen Davies, Lady Honoria, and even Elizabeth might have done all they threatened; the first of them, perhaps the first two of them, certainly would have done so.  But still Geoffrey might have escaped destruction.  Public opinion, or the sounder part of it, is sensibly enough hard to move in such a matter, especially when the person said to have been wronged is heart and soul on the side of him who is said to have wronged her.