“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 avail. And Beatrice would speak it; she was sure she would. It was a golden road out of her troubles. “Stop!” said Elizabeth in a shrill, hard voice. “Stop! I must speak; it is my duty as a Christian. I must tell the truth. I cannot allow an honest man to be deceived.” There was an awful pause. Beatrice broke it. Now she saw all the truth, and knew what was at hand. She placed her hand upon her heart to still its beating. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she said, “in our dead mother’s name——” and she stopped. “Yes,” answered her sister, “in our dead mother’s name, which you have dishonoured, I will do it. Listen, Owen Davies, and father: Beatrice, who sits there”—and she pointed at her with her thin hand—“_Beatrice is a scarlet woman!_” “I really don’t understand,” gasped Mr. Granger, while Owen looked round wildly, and Beatrice sunk her head upon her breast.