orious 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.

They reached London at last, and as had been arranged, Anne, the French
_bonne_, met them at the station to take Effie home. Geoffrey noticed
that she looked smarter and less to his taste than ever. However, she
embraced Effie with an enthusiasm which the child scarcely responded
to, and at the same time carried on an ocular flirtation with a ticket
collector. Although early in the year for yellow fogs, London was
plunged in a dense gloom. It had been misty that morning at Bryngelly,
and become more and more so as the day advanced; but, though it was not
yet four o'clock, London was dark as night. Luckily, however, it is not
far from Paddington to the flat near the Edgware Road, where Geoffrey
lived, so having personally ins