Remembering Beatrice’s confidence as to her sermon manufacturing functions, Geoffrey felt amused at her father’s naive way of describing them, and Beatrice also smiled faintly as she answered that the sermon was ready.  Just then the roll of wheels was heard without, and the only fly that Bryngelly could boast pulled up in front of the door.

“Here is the fly come for you, Mr. Bingham,” said Mr. Granger—­“and as I live, her ladyship with it.  Elizabeth, see if there isn’t some tea ready,” and the old gentleman, who had all the traditional love of the lower middle-class Englishman for a title, trotted off to welcome “her ladyship.”

Presently Lady Honoria entered the room, a sweet, if rather a set smile upon her handsome face, and with a graceful mien, that became her tall figure exceedingly well.  For to do Lady Honoria justice, she was one of the most ladylike women in the country, and so far as her personal appearance went, a very perfect type of the class to which she belonged.

Geoffrey looked at her, saying to himself that she had clearly recovered her temper, and that he was thankful for it.  This was not wonderful, for it is observable that the more aristocratic a lady’s manners are, the more disagreeable she is apt to be when she is crossed.

“Well, Geoffrey dear,” she said, “you see I have come to fetch you.  I was determined that you should not get yourself drowned a second time on your way home.  How are you now?—­but I need not ask, you look quite well again.”

“It is very kind of you, Honoria,” said her husband simply, but it was doubtful if she heard him, for at the moment she was engaged in searching out the soul of Beatrice, with one of the most penetrating and comprehensive glances that young lady had ever enjoyed the honour of receiving.  There was nothing rude about the look, it was too quick, but Beatrice felt that quick as it might be it embraced her altogether.  Nor was she wrong.

“There is no doubt about it,” Lady Honoria thought to herself, “she is lovely—­lovely everywhere.  It was clever of her to leave her hair down; it shows the shape of her head so well, and she is tall enough to stand it.  That blue wrapper suits her too.  Very few women could show such a figure as hers—­like a Greek statue.  I don’t like her; she is different from most of us; just the sort of girl men go wild about and women hate.”

All this passed through her mind in a flash.  For a moment Lady Honoria’s blue eyes met Beatrice’s grey ones, and she knew that Beatrice liked her no better than she did Beatrice.  Those eyes were a trifle too honest, and, like the deep clear water they resembled, apt to throw up shadows of the passing thoughts above.

“False and cold and heartless,” thought Beatrice.  “I wonder how a man like that could marry her; and how much he loves her.”

Thus the two women took each other’s measure at a glance, each finding the other wanting by her standard.  Nor did they ever change that hastily formed judgment.