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 ā3，000--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 ā4，000 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？""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 Isaw."
"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 Ihad 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？"Beatrice spoke in a bantering tone， and laughed as she spoke， but the laugh ended in something like a sigh. He looked at her for a moment， looked till she dropped her eyes.
"Heaven only knows！" he answered sadly.
"Let us go in，" said Beatrice， in a constrained voice； "how chill the air has turned."
