The train, which did not stop at Bryngelly, left Coed at ten, and Coed was an hour and a half’s walk.  She must be starting.  Of course, she would have to be absent for the night, and she was sorely puzzled how to account for her absence to Betty, the servant girl; the others being gone there was no need to do so to anybody else.  But here fortune befriended her.  While she was thinking the matter over, who should come in but Betty herself, crying.  She had just heard, she said, that her little sister, who lived with their mother at a village about ten miles away, had been knocked down by a cart and badly hurt.  Might she go home for the night?  She could come back on the morrow, and Miss Beatrice could get somebody in to sleep if she was lonesome.

Beatrice sympathised, demurred, and consented, and Betty started at once.  As soon as she was gone, Beatrice locked up the house, put the key in her pocket, and started on her five miles’ tramp.  Nobody saw her leave the house, and she passed by a path at the back of the village, so that nobody saw her on the road.  Reaching Coed Station quite unobserved, and just before the train was due, she let down her veil, and took a third-class ticket to London.  This she was obliged to do, for her stock of money was very small; it amounted, altogether, to thirty-six shillings, of which the fare to London and back would cost her twenty-eight and fourpence.

In another minute she had entered an empty carriage, and the train had steamed away.

She reached Paddington about eight that night, and going to the refreshment room, dined on some tea and bread and butter.  Then she washed her hands, brushed her hair, and started.

Beatrice had never been in London before, and as soon as she left the station the rush and roar of the huge city took hold of her, and confused her.  Her idea was to walk to the Houses of Parliament at Westminster.  She would, she thought, be sure to see Geoffrey there, because she had bought a daily paper in which she had read that he was to be one of the speakers in a great debate on the Irish Question, which was to be brought to a close that night.  She had been told by a friendly porter to follow Praed Street till she reached the Edgware Road, then to walk on to the Marble Arch, and ask again.  Beatrice followed the first part of this programme—­that is, she walked as far as the Edgware Road.  Then it was that confusion seized her and she stood hesitating.  At this juncture, a coarse brute of a man came up and made some remark to her.  It was impossible for a woman like Beatrice to walk alone in the streets of London at night, without running the risk of such attentions.  She turned from him, and as she did so, heard him say something about her beauty to a fellow Arcadian.  Close to where she was stood two hansom cabs.  She went to the first and asked the driver for how much he would take her to the House of Commons.

“Two bob, miss,” he answered.