Beatrice shook her head vehemently at this point, but Monica continued in the same quiet way. “You are unhappy, you are restless and miserable. Beatrice, answer me frankly, would you be happy if Tom Pendrill were not here? He has already outstayed his original time, and we could quite easily get rid of him if his presence is a trouble to you. We never stand on ceremony with Tom, and Randolph could manage it in a moment.” Beatrice lifted a pale, startled face. “Tom Pendrill?” she repeated, almost sharply. “What has he got to do with it? What makes you bring in his name? What do you know about—about——?” She stopped suddenly. “I know nothing except what I see for myself—nothing but what your face and his tell me. It is easy to see that you have known each other before, and under rather exceptional circumstances, perhaps. Do you think it escapes me, that feverish gaiety of yours whenever he is near—gaiety that is expended in laughing, chatting, flirting, perhaps, with the other guests, but is never by any chance directed to him? Do you think I do not notice how quickly that affectation of high spirits evaporates when he is gone; how many fits of sad musing follow in its wake? How is it you two never talk to one another? never exchange anything beyond the most frigid commonplaces? It is not your way to be so distant and so cool, Beatrice. There must be a reason. Tell me truly, would you not be happier if Tom Pendrill were to go back to St. Maws?” But Beatrice shook her head again, and heaved a long, shuddering sigh. “Oh, no, no!” she said. “Don’t send him away. Nothing really matters now; nothing can do either good or harm. Let him stay. I think his heart is made of ice. He does not care; why should I? It is nothing but my folly and weakness, only it brings it all back so bitterly—all my pride, and self-will, and stubbornness. Well, I have suffered for it now.” It was plain that a confession was hovering on Beatrice’s lips; that she was anxious at last to unburden herself of her secret. Monica helped her by asking a direct question. “Were you engaged to him once?” “No—no! not quite. I had not got quite so far as that. I might have been. He asked me to be his wife, and I—I——” She paused, and then went on more coherently. “I will tell you all about it. It was years ago, when I was barely eighteen—a gay, giddy girl, just ‘out,’ full of fun, very wild and saucy, and thoroughly spoiled by persistent petting and indulgence. I was the only daughter of the house, and believed that Lady Beatrice Wentworth was a being of vast importance. Well, I suppose people spoiled us because we were orphans. We were all more or less spoiled, and I think it was the ruin of my eldest brother. He was at Oxford at the time I am speaking of; and I was taken to Commemoration by some gay friends of ours, who had brothers and sons at Oxford.