“What is this picture?” she asked, pointing to a beautiful portrait of a Dutch Burgomaster by Rembrandt.

“That,” answered Davies heavily, for he knew nothing of painting and cared less, “that is a Velasquez, valued for probate at L3,000—­no,” referring to the catalogue and reading, “I beg your pardon, the next is the Velasquez; that is a Rembrandt in the master’s best style, showing all his wonderful mastery over light and shade.  It was valued for probate at L4,000 guineas.”

“Four thousand guineas!” said Elizabeth, “fancy having a thing worth four thousand guineas hanging on a wall!”

And so they went on, Elizabeth asking questions and Owen answering them by the help of the catalogue, till, to Beatrice’s relief, they came at length to the end of the pictures.  Then they took some tea in the little sitting room of the master of all this magnificence.  Owen, to her great annoyance, sat opposite to Beatrice, staring at her with all his eyes while she drank her tea, with Effie sitting in her lap, and Elizabeth, observing it, bit her lip in jealousy.  She had thought it well to bring her sister here; it would not do to let Mr. Davies think she was keeping Beatrice out of his way, but his mute idol worship was trying to her feelings.  After tea they went to the top of the tower, and Effie rejoiced exceedingly in the view, which was very beautiful.  Here Owen got a word with Elizabeth.

“Your sister seems to be put out about something,” he said.

“I daresay,” she answered carelessly; “Beatrice has an uncertain temper.  I think she wanted to go out shooting with Mr. Bingham this afternoon.”

Had Owen been a less religious person he might have sworn; as it was, he only said, “Mr. Bingham—­it is always Mr. Bingham from morning to night!  When is he going away?”

“In another week, I believe.  Beatrice will be sorry, I think; she makes a great companion of him.  And now I think that we must be getting home,” and she went, leaving this poisoned shaft to rankle in his breast.

After they had returned to the vicarage and Beatrice had heard Effie her prayers and tucked her up in her small white bed, she went down to the gate to be quiet for a little while before supper.  Geoffrey had not yet come in.

It was a lovely autumn evening; the sea seemed to sleep, and the little clouds, from which the sunset fires had paled, lay like wreaths of smoke upon the infinite blue sky.  Why had not Mr. Bingham come back, she wondered; he would scarcely have time to dress.  Supposing that an accident had happened to him.  Nonsense! what accident could happen?  He was so big and strong he seemed to defy accidents; and yet had it not been for her there would be little enough left of his strength to-day.  Ah! she was glad that she had lived to be able to save him from death.  There he came, looming like a giant in the evening mist.

There was a small hand-gate beside the large one on which she leant.  Geoffrey stalked straight up to it as though he did not see her; he saw her well enough, but he was cross with her.