ople would
be an impertinence? What right have you to dictate to me as to whom I
should or should not marry? Surely of all things in the world that is my
own affair."

Geoffrey coloured to the eyes. As would have been the case with most
men of his class, he felt her accusation of having taken a liberty, of
having presumed upon an intimacy, more keenly than any which she could
have brought against him.

"Forgive me," he said humbly. "I can only assure you that I had no such
intention. I only spoke--ill-judgedly, I fear--because--because I felt
driven to it."

Beatrice took no notice of his words, but went on in the same cold
voice.

"What right have you to speak of my affairs with Mr. Davies, with an old
boatman, or even with my father? Had I wished you to do so I should have
asked you. By what authority do you constitute yourself an intermediary
for the purpose of bringing about a marriage which you are so good as to
consider would be to my pecuniary interest? Do you not know that such a
matter is one which the woman concerned, the woman whose happiness and
self-respect are at stake, alone can judge of? I have nothing more to
say except this. I said just now that you had been guilty of what would
in most people be an impertinence. Well, I will add something. In
this case, Mr. Bingham, there are circumstances which make it--a cruel
insult!"

She stopped speaking, then suddenly, without the slightest warning,
burst into passionate weeping. As she did so, the first rush of the
storm passed over them, winnowing the air as with a thousand eagles'
wings, and was lost on the moaning depths beyond.

The light went out of the sky. Now Geoffrey could only see the faint
outlines of her weeping face. One moment he hesitated and one only; then
Nature prevailed against him, for the next she was in his arms.

Beatrice scarcely resisted him. Her energies seemed to fail her, or
perhaps she had spent them in her bitter words. Her head fell upon his
shoulder, and there she sobbed her fill. Presently she lifted it and
their lips met in a first long kiss. It was finished; this was the end
of it--and thus did Geoffrey prosper Owen Davies's suit.

"Oh, you are cruel, cruel!" he whispered in her ear. "You must have
known I loved you, Beatrice, that I spoke against myself because I
thought it to be my duty. You must have known that, to my sin and
sorrow, I have always loved you, that you have never been an hour from
my mind, that I h