Presently they went down to dinner, Mr. Granger escorting the wife of the Bishop, a fat and somewhat apoplectic lady, blessed with an excellent appetite.  On his other side was the Prime Minister, and between the two he got on very well, especially after a few glasses of wine.  Indeed, both the apoplectic wife of the Bishop and the head of Her Majesty’s Government were subsequently heard to declare that Mr. Granger was a very entertaining person.  To the former he related with much detail how his daughter had saved their host’s life, and to the latter he discoursed upon the subject of tithes, favouring him with his ideas of what legislation was necessary to meet the question.  Somewhat to his own surprise, he found that his views were received with attention and even with respect.  In the main, too, they received the support of the Bishop, who likewise felt keenly on the subject of tithes.  Never before had Mr. Granger had such a good dinner nor mingled with company so distinguished.  He remembered both till his dying day.

Next morning Geoffrey and Mr. Granger started before Lady Honoria was up.  Into the details of their long journey to Wales (in a crowded third-class carriage) we need not enter.  Geoffrey had plenty to think of, but his fears had vanished, as fears sometimes do when we draw near to the object of them, and had been replaced by a curious expectancy.  He saw now, or thought he saw, that he had been making a mountain out of a molehill.  Probably it meant nothing at all.  There was no real danger.  Beatrice liked him, no doubt; possibly she had even experienced a fit of tenderness towards him.  Such things come and such things go.  Time is a wonderful healer of moral distempers, and few young ladies endure the chains of an undesirable attachment for a period of seven whole months.  It made him almost blush to think that this might be so, and that the gratuitous extension of his misfortune to Beatrice might be nothing more than the working of his own unconscious vanity—­a vanity which, did she know of it, would move her to angry laughter.

He remembered how once, when he was quite a young fellow, he had been somewhat smitten with a certain lady, who certainly, if he might judge from her words and acts, reciprocated the sentiment.  And he remembered also, how when he met that lady some months afterwards she treated him with a cold indifference, indeed almost with an insolence, that quite bewildered him, making him wonder how the same person could show in such different lights, till at length, mortified and ashamed by his mistake, he had gone away in a rage and seen her face no more.  Of course he had set it down to female infidelity; he had served her turn, she had made a fool of him, and that was all she wanted.  Now he might enjoy his humiliation.  It did not occur to him that it might be simple “cussedness,” to borrow an energetic American term, or that she had not really changed, but was angry with him for some reason which she did not choose to show.  It is difficult to weigh the motives of women in the scales of male experience, and many other men besides Geoffrey have been forced to give up the attempt and to console themselves with the reflection that the inexplicable is generally not worth understanding.