“I think it is pleasanter here,” answered Beatrice.
“Oh, Beatrice, don’t be so unkind,” he said feebly.
“As you like,” she replied. “There is a fine sunset—but I think that we shall have a storm.”
They went out, and turned up the lonely beach. The place was utterly deserted, and they walked a little way apart, almost without speaking. The sunset was magnificent; great flakes of golden cloud were driven continually from a home of splendour in the west towards the cold lined horizon of the land. The sea was still quiet, but it moaned like a thing in pain. The storm was gathering fast.
“What a lovely sunset,” said Geoffrey at length.
“It is a fatal sort of loveliness,” she answered; “it will be a bad night, and a wet morrow. The wind is rising; shall we turn?”
“No, Beatrice, never mind the wind. I want to speak to you, if you will allow me to do so.”
“Yes,” said Beatrice, “what about, Mr. Bingham.”
To make good resolutions in a matter of this sort is comparatively easy, but the carrying of them out presents some difficulties. Geoffrey, conscience-stricken into priggishness, wished to tell her that she would do well to marry Owen Davies, and found the matter hard. Meanwhile Beatrice preserved silence.
“The fact is,” he said at length, “I most sincerely hope you will forgive me, but I have been thinking a great deal about you and your future welfare.”