“Elizabeth,” said Beatrice, turning a shade paler; “what can she have been doing, I wonder.”

“Taking exercise, probably, like yourself.  Well, I seat myself with my pipe in the shadow of that rock, when suddenly I see Mr. Davies coming along towards Bryngelly as though he were walking for a wager, his hat fixed upon the back of his head.  Literally he walked over my legs and never saw me.  Then you follow and ejaculate, ’No, never!’—­and that is the end of my story.  Have I your permission to walk with you, or shall I interfere with the development of the plot?”

“There is no plot, and as you said just now the beach is free,” Beatrice answered petulantly.

They walked on a few yards and then he spoke in another tone—­the meaning of the assignation he had overheard in the churchyard grew clear to him now.

“I believe that I have to congratulate you, Miss Granger,” he said, “and I do so very heartily.  It is not everybody who is so fortunate as to——­”

Beatrice stopped, and half turning faced him.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bingham?” she said.  “I do not understand your dark sayings.”

“Mean! oh, nothing particular, except that I wished to congratulate you on your engagement.”

“My engagement! what engagement?”

“It seems that there is some mistake,” he said, and struggle as he might to suppress it his tone was one of relief.  “I understood that you had become engaged to be married to Mr. Owen Davies.  If I am wrong I am sure I apologise.”

“You are quite wrong, Mr. Bingham; I don’t know who put such a notion into your head, but there is no truth in it.”

“Then allow me to congratulate you on there being no truth in it.  You see that is the beauty of nine affairs matrimonial out of ten—­there are two or more sides of them.  If they come off the amiable and disinterested observer can look at the bright side—­as in this case, lots of money, romantic castle by the sea, gentleman of unexceptional antecedents, &c., &c, &c.  If, on the other hand, they don’t, cause can still be found for thankfulness—­lady might do better after all, castle by the sea rather draughty and cold in spring, gentlemen most estimable but perhaps a little dull, and so on, you see.”

There was a note of mockery about his talk which irritated Beatrice exceedingly.  It was not like Mr. Bingham to speak so.  It was not even the way that a gentleman out of his teens should speak to a lady on such a subject.  He knew this as well as she did and was secretly ashamed of himself.  But the truth must out:  though Geoffrey did not admit it even to himself he was bitterly and profoundly jealous, and jealous people have no manners.  Beatrice could not, however, be expected to know this, and naturally grew angry.

“I do not quite understand what you are talking about, Mr. Bingham,” she said, putting on her most dignified air, and Beatrice could look rather alarming.  “You have picked up a piece of unfounded gossip and now you take advantage of it to laugh at me, and to say rude things of Mr. Davies.  It is not kind.”