for error.  Then he thought of what old Edward had said to him, and of what Mr. Granger had said with reference to Beatrice and Owen Davies.  The views of both were crudely and even vulgarly expressed, but they coincided, and, what was more, there was truth in them, and he knew it.  The idea of Beatrice marrying Mr. Davies, to put it mildly, was repulsive to him; but had he any claim to stand between her and so desirable a settlement in life?  Clearly, he had not, his conscience told him so.

Could it be right, moreover, that this kind of tie which existed between them should be knitted more closely?  What would it mean?  Trouble, and nothing but trouble, more especially to Beatrice, who would fret her days away to no end.  He had done wrong in coming here at all, he had done wrong in taking her hand.  He would make the only reparation in his power (as though in such a case as that of Beatrice reparation were now possible)!  He would efface himself from her life and see her no more.  Then she might learn to forget him, or, at the worst, to remember him with but a vague regret.  Yes, cost what it might, he would force himself to do it before any actual mischief ensued.  The only question was, should he not go further?  Should he not tell her that she would do well to marry Mr. Davies?

Pondering over this most painful question, at last he went to sleep.

When men in Geoffrey’s unhappy position turn penitent and see the error of their ways, the prudent resolves that ensue are apt to overshoot the mark and to partake of an aggressive nature.  Not satisfied with leaving things alone, they must needs hasten to proclaim their new-found virtue to the partner of their fault, and advertise their infallible specific (to be taken by the partner) for restoring the status quo ante.  Sometimes as a consequence of this pious zeal they find themselves misunderstood, or even succeed in precipitating the catastrophe which they laudably desire to prevent.

The morrow was Whit-Sunday, and a day that Geoffrey had occasion to remember for the rest of his life.  They all met at breakfast and shortly afterwards went to church, the service being at half-past ten.  By way of putting into effect the good resolutions with which he was so busy paving an inferno of his own, Geoffrey did not sit by Beatrice, but took a seat at the end of the little church, close to the door, and tried to console himself by looking at her.

It was a curious sullen-natured day, and although there was not very much sun the air was as hot as though they were in midsummer.  Had they been in a volcanic region, Geoffrey would have thought that such weather preceded a shock of earthquake.  As it was he knew that the English climate was simply indulging itself at the expense of the population.  But as up to the present, the season had been cold, this knowledge did not console him.  Indeed he felt so choked in the stuffy little church that just