of Beatrice, who sat momentarily expecting to be publicly
denounced, grew ever fainter. The waters of desolation were closing in
over her soul.

Mr. Granger sat down firmly and worked himself into the seat of his
chair, as though to secure an additional fixedness of tenure. Elizabeth
set her teeth, and leaned her elbow on the table, holding her hand so as
to shade her face. Beatrice drooped upon her seat like a fading lily, or
a prisoner in the dock. She was opposite to them, and Owen Davies, his
face alight with wild enthusiasm, stood up and addressed them all like
the counsel for the prosecution.

"Last autumn," he began, speaking to Mr. Granger, who might have been
a judge uncertain as to the merits of the case, "I asked your daughter
Beatrice to marry me."

Beatrice gave a sigh, and collected her scattered energies. The storm
had burst at last, and she must face it.

"I asked her to marry me, and she told me to wait a year. I have waited
as long as I could, but I could not wait the whole year. I have prayed a
great deal, and I am bidden to speak."

Elizabeth made a gesture of impatience. She was a person of strong
common sense, and this mixture of religion and eroticism disgusted her.
She also know that the storm had burst, and that _she_ must face it.

"So I come to tell you that I love your daughter Beatrice, and want to
make her my wife. I have never loved anybody else, but I have loved her
for years; and I ask your consent."

"Very flattering, very flattering, I am sure, especially in these hard
times," said Mr. Granger apologetically, shaking his thin hair down over
his forehead, and then rumpling it up again. "But you see, Mr. Davies,
you don't want to marry me" (here Beatrice smiled faintly)--"you want to
marry my daughter, so you had better ask her direct--at least I suppose
so."

Elizabeth made a movement as though to speak, then changed her mind and
listened.

"Beatrice," said Owen Davies, "you hear. I ask you to marry me."

There was a pause. Beatrice, who had sat quite silent, was gathering up
her strength to answer. Elizabeth, watching her from beneath her
hand, thought that she read upon her face irresolution, softening into
consent. What she really saw was but doubt as to the fittest and most
certain manner of refusal. Like lightning it flashed into Elizabeth's
mind that she must strike now, or hold her hand for ever. If once
Beatrice spoke that fatal "yes," her revelations might be of no