h came in.

"Well, Beatrice," she said, "are you coming to church? Father has gone
on."

Beatrice pretended not to hear, and reflected a moment. He would go away
and she would see him no more. Could she let slip this last hour? Oh,
she could not do it!

In that moment of reflection her fate was sealed.

"No," she answered slowly, "I don't think that I am coming; it is too
sultry to go to church. I daresay that Mr. Bingham will accompany you."

Geoffrey hastily disclaimed any such intention, and Elizabeth started
alone. "Ah!" she said to herself, "I thought that you would not come, my
dear."

"Well," said Geoffrey, when she had well gone, "shall we go out?"

"I think it is pleasanter here," answered Beatrice.

"Oh, Beatrice, don't be so unkind," he said feebly.

"As you like," she replied. "There is a fine sunset--but I think that we
shall have a storm."

They went out, and turned up the lonely beach. The place was utterly
deserted, and they walked a little way apart, almost without speaking.
The sunset was magnificent; great flakes of golden cloud were driven
continually from a home of splendour in the west towards the cold lined
horizon of the land. The sea was still quiet, but it moaned like a thing
in pain. The storm was gathering fast.

"What a lovely sunset," said Geoffrey at length.

"It is a fatal sort of loveliness," she answered; "it will be a bad
night, and a wet morrow. The wind is rising; shall we turn?"

"No, Beatrice, never mind the wind. I want to speak to you, if you will
allow me to do so."

"Yes," said Beatrice, "what about, Mr. Bingham."

To make good resolutions in a matter of this sort is comparatively
easy, but the carrying of them out presents some difficulties. Geoffrey,
conscience-stricken into priggishness, wished to tell her that she
would do well to marry Owen Davies, and found the matter hard. Meanwhile
Beatrice preserved silence.

"The fact is," he said at length, "I most sincerely hope you will
forgive me, but I have been thinking a great deal about you and your
future welfare."

"That is very kind of you," said Beatrice, with an ominous humility.

This was disconcerting, but Geoffrey was determined, and he went on in
a somewhat flippant tone born of the most intense nervousness and hatred
of his task. Never had he loved her so well as now in this moment when
he was about to counsel her to marry another man. And yet he persevered
in his folly. For, as so often happen