“Yes, thank you very much.  Have you read it?”

“No, but I have cut it.  Darwin doesn’t interest me, you know.  I think that he was a rather misguided person.  May I carry the books home for you?”

“Thank you, but I am not going straight home; I am going to old Edward’s shed to see my canoe.”

As a matter of fact this was true, but the idea was only that moment born in her mind.  Beatrice had been going home, as she wanted to see that all things were duly prepared for Geoffrey and his little daughter.  But to reach the Vicarage she must pass along the cliff, where there were few people, and this she did not wish to do.  To be frank, she feared lest Mr. Davies should take the opportunity to make that offer of his hand and heart which hung over her like a nightmare.  Now the way to Edward’s shed lay through the village and down the cliff, and she knew that he would never propose in the village.

It was very foolish of her, no doubt, thus to seek to postpone the evil day, but the strongest-minded women have their weak points, and this was one of Beatrice’s.  She hated the idea of this scene.  She knew that when it did come there would be a scene.  Not that her resolution to refuse the man had ever faltered.  But it would be painful, and in the end it must reach the ears of her father and Elizabeth that she had actually rejected Mr. Owen Davies, and then what would her life be worth?  She had never suspected it, it had never entered into her mind to suspect, that, though her father might be vexed enough, nothing on this earth would more delight the heart of Elizabeth.

Presently, having fetched her hat, Beatrice, accompanied by her admirer, bearing the Life of Darwin under his arm, started to walk down to the beach.  They went in silence, Beatrice just a little ahead.  She ventured some remark about the weather, but Owen Davies made no reply; he was thinking, he wanted to say something, but he did not know how to say it.  They were at the head of the cliff now, and if he wished to speak he must do so quickly.

“Miss Beatrice,” he said in a somewhat constrained voice.

“Yes, Mr. Davies—­oh, look at that seagull; it nearly knocked my hat off.”

But he was not to be put off with the seagull.  “Miss Beatrice,” he said again, “are you going out walking next Sunday afternoon?”

“How can I tell, Mr. Davies?  It may rain.”

“But if it does not rain—­please tell me.  You generally do walk on the beach on Sunday.  Miss Beatrice, I want to speak to you.  I hope you will allow me, I do indeed.”

Then suddenly she came to a decision.  This kind of thing was unendurable; it would be better to get it over.  Turning round so suddenly that Owen started, she said: 

“If you wish to speak to me, Mr. Davies, I shall be in the Amphitheatre opposite the Red Rocks, at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, but I had much rather that you did not come.  I can say no more.”