“Knock, squire, knock, and ask if it is true,” said a woman, the same who had declared that she would have hugged her husband back to life.

This remark seemed to encourage the man, at any rate he did knock.  Presently the door was opened by Elizabeth.

“Go away,” she said in her sharp voice; “the house must be kept quiet.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Granger,” said the visitor, in a tone of deep humiliation.  “I only wanted to know if it was true that Miss Beatrice lives.”

“Why,” said Elizabeth with a start, “is it you, Mr. Davies?  I am sure I had no idea.  Step into the passage and I will shut the door.  There!  How long have you been outside?”

“Oh, since they brought them up.  But is it true?”

“Yes, yes, it is true.  She will recover now.  And you have stood all this time in the wet night.  I am sure that Beatrice ought to be flattered.”

“Not at all.  It seemed so awful, and—­I—­I take such an interest——­” and he broke off.

“Such an interest in Beatrice,” said Elizabeth drily, supplying the hiatus.  “Yes, so it seems,” and suddenly, as though by chance, she moved the candle which she held, in such fashion that the light fell full upon Owen Davies’ face.  It was a slow heavy countenance, but not without comeliness.  The skin was fresh as a child’s, the eyes were large, blue, and mild, and the brown hair grew in waves that many a woman might have envied.  Indeed had it not been for a short but strongly growing beard, it would have been easy to believe that the countenance was that of a boy of nineteen rather than of a man over thirty.  Neither time nor care had drawn a single line upon it; it told of perfect and robust health and yet bore the bloom of childhood.  It was the face of a man who might live to a hundred and still look young, nor did the form belie it.

Mr. Davies blushed up to his eyes, blushed like a girl beneath Elizabeth’s scrutiny.  “Naturally I take an interest in a neighbour’s fate,” he said, in his slow deliberate way.  “She is quite safe, then?”

“I believe so,” answered Elizabeth.

“Thank God!” he said, or rather it seemed to break from him in a sigh of relief.  “How did the gentleman, Mr. Bingham, come to be found with her?”

“How should I know?” she answered with a shrug.  “Beatrice saved his life somehow, clung fast to him even after she was insensible.”

“It is very wonderful.  I never heard of such a thing.  What is he like?”

“He is one of the finest-looking men I ever saw,” answered Elizabeth, always watching him.

“Ah.  But he is married, I think, Miss Granger?”

“Oh, yes, he is married to the daughter of a peer, very much married—­and very little, I should say.”

“I do not quite understand, Miss Granger.”

“Don’t you, Mr. Davies? then use your eyes when you see them together.”

“I should not see anything.  I am not quick like you,” he added.