Geoffrey coloured. He was a man who could not bear to lay himself open to the smallest rebuff from a woman, and he had brought this on himself. Beatrice saw it and relented. “Of course, Mr. Bingham, so far as I am concerned, I shall be the gainer if you do come. I do not meet so many people with whom I care to associate, and from whom I can learn, that I wish to throw a chance away.” “I think you misunderstand me a little,” he said; “I only meant that perhaps you would not wish to be bothered with Effie, Miss Granger.” She laughed. “Why, I love children. It will be a great pleasure to me to look after her so far as I have time.” Just then the others returned, and their conversation came to an end. “It’s quite delightful, Geoffrey—such funny old-fashioned rooms. I really envy you.” (If there was one thing in the world that Lady Honoria hated, it was an old-fashioned room.) “Well, and now we must be going. Oh! you poor creature, I forgot that you were so knocked about. I am sure Mr. Granger will give you his arm.” Mr. Granger ambled forward, and Geoffrey having made his adieus, and borrowed a clerical hat (Mr. Granger’s concession to custom, for in most other respects he dressed like an ordinary farmer), was safely conveyed to the fly. And so ended Geoffrey’s first day at Bryngelly Vicarage. CHAPTER XI. BEATRICE MAKES AN APPOINTMENT Lady Honoria leaned back in the cab, and sighed a sigh of satisfaction. “That is a capital idea,” she said. “I was wondering what arrangements you could make for the next three weeks. It is ridiculous to pay three guineas a week for rooms just for you and Effie. The old gentleman only wants that for board and lodging together, for I asked him.” “I daresay it will do,” said Geoffrey. “When are we to shift?” “To-morrow, in time for dinner, or rather supper: these barbarians eat supper, you know. I go by the morning train, you see, so as to reach Garsington by tea-time. I daresay you will find it rather dull, but you like being dull. The old clergyman is a low stamp of man, and a bore, and as for the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, she’s too awful—she reminds me of a rat. But Beatrice is handsome enough, though I think her horrid too. You’ll have to console yourself with her, and I daresay you will suit each other.” “Why do you think her horrid, Honoria?” “Oh, I don’t know; she is clever and odd, and I hate odd women. Why can’t they be like other people? Think of her being strong enough to save your life like that too. She must have the muscle of an Amazon—it’s downright unwomanly. But there is no doubt about her beauty. She is as nearly perfect as any girl I ever saw, though too independent looking. If only one had a daughter like that, how one might marry her. I would not look at anything under twenty thousand a year. She is too good for that lumbering Welsh squire she’s engaged to—the man who lives in the Castle—though they say that he is fairly rich.”