“Oh, no, not Mr. Bingham,” answered Owen anxiously. “I will do anything you like, or if you wish to have a lawyer I’ll pay the bill myself. But never mind about that now. Let us settle it with Beatrice first. Come along at once.” “Eh, but hadn’t you better arrange that part of the business privately?” “No, no. She always snubs me when I try to speak to her alone. You had better be there, and Miss Elizabeth too, if she likes. I won’t speak to her again alone. I will speak to her in the face of God and man, as God directed me to do, and then it will be all right—I know it will.” Mr. Granger stared at him. He was a clergyman of a very practical sort, and did not quite see what the Power above had to do with Owen Davies’s matrimonial intentions. “Ah, well,” he said, “I see what you mean; marriages are made in heaven; yes, of course. Well, if you want to get on with the matter, I daresay that we shall find Beatrice in.” So they walked back to the Vicarage, Mr. Granger exultant and yet perplexed, for it struck him that there was something a little odd about the proceeding, and Owen Davies in silence or muttering occasionally to himself. In the sitting-room they found Elizabeth. “Where is Beatrice?” asked her father. “I don’t know,” she answered, and at that moment Beatrice, pale and troubled, walked into the room, like a lamb to the slaughter. “Ah, Beatrice,” said her father, “we were just asking for you.” She glanced round, and with the quick wit of a human animal, instantly perceived that some new danger threatened her. “Indeed,” she said, sinking into a chair in an access of feebleness born of fear. “What is it, father?” Mr. Granger looked at Owen Davies and then took a step towards the door. It struck him forcibly that this scene should be private to the two persons principally concerned. “Don’t go,” said Owen Davies excitedly, “don’t go, either of you; what I have to say had better be said before you both. I should like to say it before the whole world; to cry it from the mountain tops.” Elizabeth glared at him fiercely—glared first at him and then at the innocent Beatrice. Could he be going to propose to her, then? Ah, why had she hesitated? Why had she not told him the whole truth before? But the heart 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.