“Yes,” he said again, “you gave me my life, and it makes me very unhappy to think that I can give you nothing in return. Oh, Beatrice, I will tell you what I have never told to any one. I am lonely and wretched. With the exception of yourself, I do not think that there is anybody who really cares for—I mean who really sympathises with me in the world. I daresay that it is my own fault and it sounds a humiliating thing to say, and, in a fashion, a selfish thing. I never should have said it to any living soul but you. What is the use of being great when there is nobody to work for? Things might have been different, but the world is a hard place. If you—if you——” At this moment his hand touched hers; it was accidental, but in the tenderness of his heart he yielded to the temptation and took it. Then there was a moment’s pause, and very gently she drew her hand away and thrust it in her bosom. “You have your wife to share your fortune,” she said; “you have Effie to inherit it, and you can leave your name to your country.” Then came a heavy pause. “And you,” he said, breaking it, “what future is there for you?” She laughed softly. “Women have no future and they ask none. At least I do not now, though once I did. It is enough for them if they can ever so little help the lives of others. That is their happiness, and their reward is—rest.” Just then Mr. Granger came back from his christening, and Beatrice rose and went to bed. “Looks a little pale, doesn’t she, Mr. Bingham?” said her father. “I think she must be troubled in her mind. The fact is—well, there is no reason why I should not tell you; she thinks so much of you, and you might say a word to brighten her up—well, it’s about Mr. Davies. I fancy, you know, that she likes him and is vexed because he does not come forward. Well, you see—of course I may be mistaken, but I have sometimes thought that he may. I have seen him look as if he was thinking of it, though of course it is more than Beatrice has got any right to expect. She’s only got herself and her good looks to give him, and he’s a rich man. Think of it, Mr. Bingham,” and the old gentleman turned up his eyes piously, “just think what a thing it would be for her, and indeed for all of us, if it should please God to send a chance like that in her way; she would be rich for life, and such a position! But it is possible; one never knows; he might take a fancy to her. At any rate, Mr. Bingham, I think you could cheer her up a little; there is no need for her to give up hope yet.” Geoffrey burst into a short grim laugh. The idea of Beatrice languishing for Owen Davies, indeed the irony of the whole position, was too much for his sense of humour. “Yes,” he said, “I daresay that it might be a good match for her, but I do not know how she would get on with Mr. Davies.”