He was perfectly furious, though all the while he knew how unreasonable was his anger. He had been looking forward to the expedition, and this sudden change of plan was too much for his temper. Off he started, however, to pass a thoroughly miserable afternoon. He seemed to miss Beatrice more each step and gradually to grow more and more angry at what he called her “rudeness.” Of course it never occurred to him that what he was really angry at was her going to see Mr. Davies, or that, in truth, her society had become so delightful to him that to be deprived of it even for an afternoon was to be wretched. To top everything, he only got three good shots that afternoon, and he missed them all, which made him crosser than ever. As for Beatrice, she enjoyed herself just as little at the Castle as Geoffrey did on the beach. Owen Davies took them through the great unused rooms and showed them the pictures, but she had seen them before, and though some of them were very fine, did not care to look at them again—at any rate, not that afternoon. But Elizabeth gazed at them with eager eyes and mentally appraised their value, wondering if they would ever be hers. “What is this picture?” she asked, pointing to a beautiful portrait of a Dutch Burgomaster by Rembrandt. “That,” answered Davies heavily, for he knew nothing of painting and cared less, “that is a Velasquez, valued for probate at £3,000—no,” referring to the catalogue and reading, “I beg your pardon, the next is the Velasquez; that is a Rembrandt in the master’s best style, showing all his wonderful mastery over light and shade. It was valued for probate at £4,000 guineas.” “Four thousand guineas!” said Elizabeth, “fancy having a thing worth four thousand guineas hanging on a wall!” And so they went on, Elizabeth asking questions and Owen answering them by the help of the catalogue, till, to Beatrice’s relief, they came at length to the end of the pictures. Then they took some tea in the little sitting room of the master of all this magnificence. Owen, to her great annoyance, sat opposite to Beatrice, staring at her with all his eyes while she drank her tea, with Effie sitting in her lap, and Elizabeth, observing it, bit her lip in jealousy. She had thought it well to bring her sister here; it would not do to let Mr. Davies think she was keeping Beatrice out of his way, but his mute idol worship was trying to her feelings. After tea they went to the top of the tower, and Effie rejoiced exceedingly in the view, which was very beautiful. Here Owen got a word with Elizabeth. “Your sister seems to be put out about something,” he said. “I daresay,” she answered carelessly; “Beatrice has an uncertain temper. I think she wanted to go out shooting with Mr. Bingham this afternoon.” Had Owen been a less religious person he might have sworn; as it was, he only said, “Mr. Bingham—it is always Mr. Bingham from morning to night! When is he going away?”