“In another week, I believe. Beatrice will be sorry, I think; she makes a great companion of him. And now I think that we must be getting home,” and she went, leaving this poisoned shaft to rankle in his breast. After they had returned to the vicarage and Beatrice had heard Effie her prayers and tucked her up in her small white bed, she went down to the gate to be quiet for a little while before supper. Geoffrey had not yet come in. It was a lovely autumn evening; the sea seemed to sleep, and the little clouds, from which the sunset fires had paled, lay like wreaths of smoke upon the infinite blue sky. Why had not Mr. Bingham come back, she wondered; he would scarcely have time to dress. Supposing that an accident had happened to him. Nonsense! what accident could happen? He was so big and strong he seemed to defy accidents; and yet had it not been for her there would be little enough left of his strength to-day. Ah! she was glad that she had lived to be able to save him from death. There he came, looming like a giant in the evening mist. There was a small hand-gate beside the large one on which she leant. Geoffrey stalked straight up to it as though he did not see her; he saw her well enough, but he was cross with her. She allowed him to pass through the gate, which he shut slowly, perhaps to give her an opportunity of speaking, if she wished to do so; then thinking that he did not see her she spoke in her soft, musical voice. “Did you have good sport, Mr. Bingham?” “No,” he answered shortly; “I saw very little, and I missed all I saw.” “I am so sorry, except for the birds. I hate the birds to be killed. Did you not see me in this white dress? I saw you fifty yards away.” “Yes, Miss Granger,” he answered, “I saw you.” “And you were going by without speaking to me; it was very rude of you—what is the matter?” “Not so rude as it was of you to arrange to walk out with me and then to go and see Mr. Davies instead.” “I could not help it, Mr. Bingham; it was an old engagement, which I had forgotten.” “Quite so, ladies generally have an excuse for doing what they want to do.” “It is not an excuse, Mr. Bingham,” Beatrice answered, with dignity; “there is no need for me to make excuses to you about my movements.” “Of course not, Miss Granger; but it would be more polite to tell me when you change your mind—next time, you know. However, I have no doubt that the Castle has attractions for you.” She flashed one look at him and turned to go, and as she did so his heart relented; he grew ashamed. “Miss Granger, don’t go; forgive me. I do not know what has become of my manners, I spoke as I should not. The fact is, I was put out at your not coming. To tell you the honest truth, I missed you dreadfully.” “You missed me. That is very nice of you; one likes to be missed. But, if you missed me for one afternoon, how will you get on a week hence when you go away and miss me altogether?”