“You should not ask a barrister that question,” he answered, laughing; “it is like looking at the pictures which an artist has turned to the wall.  No, to be frank, I have not.  I have only taken to practising in earnest during the last two years.  Before I was a barrister in name, and that is all.”

“Then why did you suddenly begin to work?”

“Because I lost my prospects, Miss Granger—­from necessity, in short.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, with a blush, which of course he could not see.  “I did not mean to be rude.  But it is very lucky for you, is it not?”

“Indeed!  Some people don’t think so.  Why is it lucky?”

“Because you will now rise and become a great man, and that is more than being a rich man.”

“And why do you think that I shall become a great man?” he asked, stopping paddling in his astonishment and looking at the dim form before him.

“Oh! because it is written on your face,” she answered simply.

Her words rang true; there was no flattery or artifice in them.  Geoffrey felt that the girl was saying just what she thought.

“So you study physiognomy as well,” he said.  “Well, Miss Granger, it is rather odd, considering all things, but I will say to you what I have never said to any one before.  I believe that you are right.  I shall rise.  If I live I feel that I have it in me.”

At this point it possibly occurred to Beatrice that, considering the exceeding brevity of their acquaintance, they were drifting into somewhat confidential conversation.  At any rate, she quickly changed the topic.

“I am afraid you are growing tired,” she said; “but we must be getting on.  It will soon be quite dark and we have still a long way to go.  Look there,” and she pointed seaward.

He looked.  The whole bank of mist was breaking up and bearing down on them in enormous billows of vapour.  Presently, these were rolling over them, so darkening the heavy air that, though the pair were within four feet of each other, they could scarcely see one another’s faces.  As yet they felt no wind.  The dense weight of mist choked the keen, impelling air.

“I think the weather is breaking; we are going to have a storm,” said Beatrice, a little anxiously.

Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when the mist passed away from them, and from all the seaward expanse of ocean.  Not a wrack of it was left, and in its place the strong sea-breath beat upon their faces.  Far in the west the angry disc of the sun was sinking into the foam.  A great red ray shot from its bent edge and lay upon the awakened waters, like a path of fire.  The ominous light fell full upon the little boat and full upon Beatrice’s lips.  Then it passed on and lost itself in the deep mists which still swathed the coast.

“Oh, how beautiful it is!” she cried, raising herself and pointing to the glory of the dying sun.