“Are you going to marry Beatrice, Mr. Davies?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered slowly and without surprise. It seemed natural to him that his own central thought should be present in her mind. “I love her dearly, and want to marry her.”
“She refused you, then?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth breathed more freely.
“But I can ask her again.”
Elizabeth frowned. What could this mean? It was not an absolute refusal. Beatrice was playing some game of her own.
“Why did she put you off so, Mr. Davies? Do not think me inquisitive. I only ask because I may be able to help you.”
“I know; you are very kind. Help me and I shall always be grateful to you. I do not know—I almost think that there must be somebody else, only I don’t know who it can be.”
“Ah!” said Elizabeth, who had been gazing intently at the little holes in the beach which she had now cleared of the sand. “Of course that is possible. She is a curious girl, Beatrice is. What are those letters, Mr. Davies?”