“Well, Geoffrey dear,” she said, “you see I have come to fetch you. I was determined that you should not get yourself drowned a second time on your way home. How are you now?—but I need not ask, you look quite well again.” “It is very kind of you, Honoria,” said her husband simply, but it was doubtful if she heard him, for at the moment she was engaged in searching out the soul of Beatrice, with one of the most penetrating and comprehensive glances that young lady had ever enjoyed the honour of receiving. There was nothing rude about the look, it was too quick, but Beatrice felt that quick as it might be it embraced her altogether. Nor was she wrong. “There is no doubt about it,” Lady Honoria thought to herself, “she is lovely—lovely everywhere. It was clever of her to leave her hair down; it shows the shape of her head so well, and she is tall enough to stand it. That blue wrapper suits her too. Very few women could show such a figure as hers—like a Greek statue. I don’t like her; she is different from most of us; just the sort of girl men go wild about and women hate.” All this passed through her mind in a flash. For a moment Lady Honoria’s blue eyes met Beatrice’s grey ones, and she knew that Beatrice liked her no better than she did Beatrice. Those eyes were a trifle too honest, and, like the deep clear water they resembled, apt to throw up shadows of the passing thoughts above. “False and cold and heartless,” thought Beatrice. “I wonder how a man like that could marry her; and how much he loves her.” Thus the two women took each other’s measure at a glance, each finding the other wanting by her standard. Nor did they ever change that hastily formed judgment. It was all done in a few seconds—in that hesitating moment before the words we summon answer on our lips. The next, Lady Honoria was sweeping towards her with outstretched hand, and her most gracious smile. “Miss Granger,” she said, “I owe you a debt I never can repay—my dear husband’s life. I have heard all about how you saved him; it is the most wonderful thing—Grace Darling born again. I can’t think how you could do it. I wish I were half as brave and strong.” “Please don’t, Lady Honoria,” said Beatrice. “I am so tired of being thanked for doing nothing, except what it was my duty to do. If I had let Mr. Bingham go while I had the strength to hold on to him I should have felt like a murderess to-day. I beg you to say no more about it.” “One does not often find such modesty united to so much courage, and, if you will allow me to say it, so much beauty,” answered Lady Honoria graciously. “Well, I will do as you wish, but I warn you your fame will find you out. I hear they have an account of the whole adventure in to-day’s papers, headed, ‘A Welsh Heroine.’” “How did you hear that, Honoria?” asked her husband. “Oh, I had a telegram from Garsington, and he mentions it,” she answered carelessly.