The morrow was Whit-Sunday, and a day that Geoffrey had occasion to remember for the rest of his life. They all met at breakfast and shortly afterwards went to church, the service being at half-past ten. By way of putting into effect the good resolutions with which he was so busy paving an inferno of his own, Geoffrey did not sit by Beatrice, but took a seat at the end of the little church, close to the door, and tried to console himself by looking at her. It was a curious sullen-natured day, and although there was not very much sun the air was as hot as though they were in midsummer. Had they been in a volcanic region, Geoffrey would have thought that such weather preceded a shock of earthquake. As it was he knew that the English climate was simply indulging itself at the expense of the population. But as up to the present, the season had been cold, this knowledge did not console him. Indeed he felt so choked in the stuffy little church that just before the sermon (which he happened to be aware was _not_ written by Beatrice) he took an opportunity to slip out unobserved. Not knowing where to go, he strolled down to the beach, on which there was nobody to be seen, for, as has been observed, Bryngelly slept on Sundays. Presently, however, a man approached walking rapidly, and to all appearance aimlessly, in whom he recognised Owen Davies. He was talking to himself while he walked, and swinging his arms. Geoffrey stepped aside to let him pass, and as he did so was surprised and even shocked to see the change in the man. His plump healthy-looking face had grown thin, and wore a half sullen, half pitiful expression; there were dark circles round his blue eyes, once so placid, and his hair would have been the better for cutting. Geoffrey wondered if he had had an illness. At that moment Owen chanced to look round and saw him. “How do you do, Mr. Bingham?” he said. “I heard that you were here. They told me at the station last night. You see this is a small place and one likes to know who comes and goes,” he added as though in excuse. He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him. “You do not look well, Mr. Davies,” he said. “Have you been laid up?” “No, no,” he answered, “I am quite right; it is only my mind that is ill.” “Indeed,” said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly did look strange. “Perhaps you live too much alone and it depresses you.” “Yes, I live alone, because I can’t help myself. What is a man to do, Mr. Bingham, when the woman he loves will not marry him, won’t look at him, treats him like dirt?” “Marry somebody else,” suggested Geoffrey. “Oh, it is easy for you to say that—you have never loved anybody, and you don’t understand. I cannot marry anybody else, I want her only.” “Her? Whom?” “Who! why, Beatrice—whom else could a man want to marry, if once he had seen her. But she will not have me; she hates me.” “Really,” said Geoffrey.