“I did not say you expressed them,” went on the vigorous Elizabeth; “you look them—­they ooze out of your words like water from a peat bog.  Everybody knows you are a radical and a freethinker and everything else that is bad and mad, and contrary to that state of life in which it has pleased God to call you.  The end of it will be that you will lose the mistresship of the school—­and I think it is very hard on father and me that you should bring disgrace on us with your strange ways and immoral views, and now you can make what you like of it.”

“I wish that all radicals were like Miss Beatrice,” said Geoffrey, who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, with a feeble attempt at polite jocosity.  But nobody seemed to hear him.  Elizabeth, who was now fairly in a rage, a faint flush upon her pale cheeks, her light eyes all ashine, and her thin fingers clasped, stood fronting her beautiful sister, and breathing spite at every pore.  But it was easy for Geoffrey who was watching her to see that it was not her sister’s views she was attacking; it was her sister.  It was that soft strong loveliness and the glory of that face; it was the deep gentle mind, erring from its very greatness, and the bright intellect which lit it like a lamp; it was the learning and the power that, give them play, would set a world aflame, as easily as they did the heart of the slow-witted hermit squire, whom Elizabeth coveted—­these were the things that Elizabeth hated, and bitterly assailed.

Accustomed to observe, Geoffrey saw this instantly, and then glanced at the father.  The old man was frightened; clearly he was afraid of Elizabeth, and dreaded a scene.  He stood fidgeting his feet about, and trying to find something to say, as he glanced apprehensively at his elder daughter, through his thin hanging hair.

Lastly, Geoffrey looked at Beatrice, who was indeed well worth looking at.  Her face was quite pale and the clear grey eyes shone out beneath their dark lashes.  She had risen, drawing herself to her full height, which her exquisite proportions seemed to increase, and was looking at her sister.  Presently she said one word and one only, but it was enough.

“Elizabeth.”

Her sister opened her lips to speak again, but hesitated, and changed her mind.  There was something in Beatrice’s manner that checked her.

“Well,” she said at length, “you should not irritate me so, Beatrice.”

Beatrice made no reply.  She only turned towards Geoffrey, and with a graceful little bow, said: 

“Mr. Bingham, I am sure that you will forgive this scene.  The fact is, we all slept badly last night, and it has not improved our tempers.”

There was a pause, of which Mr. Granger took a hurried and rather undignified advantage.

“Um, ah,” he said.  “By the way, Beatrice, what was it I wanted to say?  Ah, I know—­have you written, I mean written out, that sermon for next Sunday?  My daughter,” he added, addressing Geoffrey in explanation—­“um, copies my sermons for me.  She writes a very good hand——­”