Geoffrey thought no ill of all this, as of course he ought to have thought. He was not the ravening lion of fiction—so rarely, if ever, to be met with in real life—going about seeking whom he might devour. He had absolutely no designs on Beatrice’s affections, any more than she had on his, and he had forgotten that first fell prescience of evil to come. Once or twice, it is true, qualms of doubt did cross his mind in the earlier days of their intimacy. But he put them by as absurd. He was no believer in the tender helplessness of full-grown women, his experience having been that they are amply capable—and, for the most part, more than capable—of looking after themselves. It seemed to him a thing ridiculous that such a person as Beatrice, who was competent to form opinions and a judgment upon all the important questions of life, should be treated as a child, and that he should remove himself from Bryngelly lest her young affections should become entangled. He felt sure that they would never be entrapped in any direction whatsoever without her full consent. Then he ceased to think about the matter at all. Indeed, the mere idea of such a thing involved a supposition that would only have been acceptable to a conceited man—namely, that there was a possibility of this young lady’s falling in love with him. What right had he to suppose anything of the sort? It was an impertinence. That there was another sort of possibility—namely, of his becoming more attached to her than was altogether desirable—did, however, occur to him once or twice. But he shrugged his shoulders and put it by. After all, it was his look out, and he did not much care. It would do her no harm at the worst. But very soon all these shadowy forebodings of dawning trouble vanished quite. They were lost in the broad, sweet lights of friendship. By-and-by, when friendship’s day was done, they might arise again, called by other names and wearing a sterner face. It was ridiculous—of course it was ridiculous; he was not going to fall in love like a boy at his time of life; all he felt was gratitude and interest—all she felt was amusement in his society. As for the intimacy—felt rather than expressed—the intimacy that could already almost enable the one to divine the other’s thought, that could shape her mood to his and his to hers, that could cause the same thing of beauty to be a common joy, and discover unity of mind in opinions the most opposite—why, it was only natural between people who had together passed a peril terrible to think of. So they took the goods the gods provided, and drifted softly on—whither they did not stop to inquire.