“I want to ask you,” he repeated, “to be my wife.  I have wished to do so for some years, but I have never been able to bring myself to it.  It is a great step to take, and my happiness depends on it.  Do not answer me yet,” he went on, his words gathering force as he spoke.  “Listen to what I have to tell you.  I have been a lonely man all my life.  At sea I was lonely, and since I have come into this fortune I have been lonelier still.  I never loved anybody or anything till I began to love you.  And then I loved you more and more and more; till now I have only one thought in all my life, and that thought is of you.  While I am awake I think of you, and when I am asleep I dream of you.  Listen, Beatrice, listen!—­I have never loved any other woman, I have scarcely spoken to one—­only you, Beatrice.  I can give you a great deal; and everything I have shall be yours, only I should be jealous of you—­yes, very jealous!”

Here she glanced at his face.  It was outwardly calm but white as death, and in the blue eyes, generally so placid, shone a fire that by contrast looked almost unholy.

“I think that you have said enough, Mr. Davies,” Beatrice answered.  “I am very much obliged to you.  I am much honoured, for in some ways I am not your equal, but I do not love you, and I cannot marry you, and I think it best to tell you so plainly, once and for all,” and unconsciously she went on digging the holes.

“Oh, do not say that,” he answered, almost in a moan.  “For God’s sake don’t say that!  It will kill me to lose you.  I think I should go mad.  Marry me and you will learn to love me.”

Beatrice glanced at him again, and a pang of pity pierced her heart.  She did not know it was so bad a case as this.  It struck her too that she was doing a foolish thing, from a worldly point of view.  The man loved her and was very eligible.  He only asked of her what most women are willing enough to give under circumstances so favourable to their well-being—­herself.  But she never liked him, he had always repelled her, and she was not a woman to marry a man whom she did not like.  Also, during the last week this dislike and repulsion had hardened and strengthened.  Vaguely, as he pleaded with her, Beatrice wondered why, and as she did so her eye fell upon the pattern she was automatically pricking in the sand.  It had taken the form of letters, and the letters were G E O F F R E—­Great heaven!  Could that be the answer?  She flushed crimson with shame at the thought, and passed her foot across the tell-tale letters, as she believed, obliterating them.

Owen saw the softening of her eyes and saw the blush, and misinterpreted them.  Thinking that she was relenting, by instinct, rather than from any teaching of experience, he attempted to take her hand.  With a turn of the arm, so quick that even Elizabeth watching with all her eyes saw nothing of the movement, Beatrice twisted herself free.

“Don’t touch me,” she said sharply, “you have no right to touch me.  I have answered you, Mr. Davies.”