“I daresay it will do,” said Geoffrey.  “When are we to shift?”

“To-morrow, in time for dinner, or rather supper:  these barbarians eat supper, you know.  I go by the morning train, you see, so as to reach Garsington by tea-time.  I daresay you will find it rather dull, but you like being dull.  The old clergyman is a low stamp of man, and a bore, and as for the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, she’s too awful—­she reminds me of a rat.  But Beatrice is handsome enough, though I think her horrid too.  You’ll have to console yourself with her, and I daresay you will suit each other.”

“Why do you think her horrid, Honoria?”

“Oh, I don’t know; she is clever and odd, and I hate odd women.  Why can’t they be like other people?  Think of her being strong enough to save your life like that too.  She must have the muscle of an Amazon—­it’s downright unwomanly.  But there is no doubt about her beauty.  She is as nearly perfect as any girl I ever saw, though too independent looking.  If only one had a daughter like that, how one might marry her.  I would not look at anything under twenty thousand a year.  She is too good for that lumbering Welsh squire she’s engaged too—­the man who lives in the Castle—­though they say that he is fairly rich.”

“Engaged,” said Geoffrey, “how do you know that she is engaged?”

“Oh, I don’t know it at all, but I suppose she is.  If she isn’t, she soon will be, for a girl in that position is not likely to throw such a chance away.  At any rate, he’s head over ears in love with her.  I saw that last night.  He was hanging about for hours in the rain, outside the door, with a face like a ghost, till he knew whether she was dead or alive, and he has been there twice to inquire this morning.  Mr. Granger told me.  But she is too good for him from a business point of view.  She might marry anybody, if only she were put in the way of it.”

Somehow, Geoffrey’s lively interest in Beatrice sensibly declined on the receipt of this intelligence.  Of course it was nothing to him; indeed he was glad to hear that she was in the way of such a comfortable settlement, but it is unfortunately a fact that one cannot be quite as much interested in a young and lovely lady who is the potential property of a “lumbering Welsh squire,” as in one who belongs to herself.

The old Adam still survives in most men, however right-thinking they may be, and this is one of its methods of self-assertion.

“Well,” he said, “I am glad to hear she is in such a good way; she deserves it.  I think the Welsh squire is in luck; Miss Granger is a remarkable woman.”

“Too remarkable by half,” said Lady Honoria drily.  “Here we are, and there is Effie, skipping about like a wild thing as usual.  I think that child is demented.”