Odd as it may seem, Geoffrey did not to this moment know the exact position which he occupied in the mind of Beatrice, or that she occupied in his.  He was not in love with her, at least not in a way in which he had ever experienced the influence of that, on the whole, inconvenient and disagreeable passion.  At any rate he argued from the hypothesis that he was not in love with her.  This he refused to admit now in the light of day, though he had admitted it fully in the watches of the night.  It would not do to admit it.  But he was forced to acknowledge that she had crept into his life and possessed it so completely that then and for months afterwards, except in deep sleep or in hours of severe mental strain, not a single half hour would pass without bringing its thought of Beatrice.  Everything that was beautiful, or grand, or elevating, reminded him of her—­and what higher compliment could a mistress have?  If he listened to glorious music, the voice of Beatrice spoke to him through the notes; if he watched the clouds rolling in heavy pomp across a broken sky he thought of Beatrice; if some chance poem or novel moved him, why Beatrice was in his mind to share the pleasure.  All of which was very interesting, and in some ways delightful, but under our current system not otherwise than inconvenient to a married man.

And now Beatrice was gone, and he must come back to his daily toil, sweetened by Honoria’s bitter complaints of their poverty, and see her no more.  The thought made Geoffrey’s heart ache with a physical pain, but his reason told him that it was best so.  After all, there were no bones broken; there had been no love scenes, no kiss, no words that cannot be recalled; whatever there was lay beneath the surface, and while appearances were kept up all was well.  No doubt it was an hypocrisy, but then hypocrisy is one of the great pillars of civilization, and how does it matter what the heart says while the lips are silent?  The Recording Angel can alone read hearts, and he must often find them singularly contradictory and untrustworthy writings.

Die of them, die of her dreams!  No, Beatrice would not die of them, and certainly he should not.  Probably in the end she would marry that pious earthly lump, Owen Davies.  It was not pleasant to think of, it was even dreadful, but really if she were to ask him his opinion, “as a friend,” he should tell her it was the best thing that she could do.  Of course it would be hypocrisy again, the lips would give his heart the lie; but when the heart rises in rebellion against the intelligence it must be suppressed.  Unfortunately, however, though a small member, it is very strong.