“I can’t bear it any longer,” he said wildly, throwing up his arms.  “I saw her yesterday, and she cut me short before I could speak a word.  I have prayed for patience and it will not come, only a Voice seemed to say to me that I must wait ten days more, ten short days, and then Beatrice, my beautiful Beatrice, would be my wife at last.”

“If you go on in this way, Mr. Davies,” said Elizabeth sharply, her heart filled with jealous anger, “you will soon be off your head.  Are you not ashamed of yourself for making such a fuss about a girl’s pretty face?  If you want to get married, marry somebody else.”

“Marry somebody else,” he said dreamily; “I don’t know anybody else whom I could marry except you, and you are not Beatrice.”

“No,” answered Elizabeth angrily, “I should hope that I have more sense, and if you wanted to marry me you would have to set about it in a different way from this.  I am not Beatrice, thank Heaven, but I am her sister, and I warn you that I know more about her than you do.  As a friend I warn you to be careful.  Supposing that Beatrice were not worthy of you, you would not wish to marry her, would you?”

Now Owen Davies was at heart somewhat afraid of Elizabeth, like most other people who had the privilege of her acquaintance.  Also, apart from matters connected with his insane passion, he was very fairly shrewd.  He suspected Elizabeth of something, he did not know of what.

“No, no, of course not,” he said.  “Of course I would not marry her if she was not fit to be my wife—­but I must know that first, before I talk of marrying anybody else.  Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth.  It will soon be settled now; it cannot go on much longer now.  My prayers will be answered, I know they will.”

“You are right there, Owen Davies,” thought Elizabeth, as she looked after him with ineffable bitterness, not to say contempt.  “Your prayers shall be answered in a way that will astonish you.  You shall not marry Beatrice, and you shall marry me.  The fish has been on the line long enough, now I must begin to pull in.”

Curiously enough it never really occurred to Elizabeth that Beatrice herself might prove to be the true obstacle to the marriage she plotted to prevent.  She knew that her sister was fond of Geoffrey Bingham, but, when it came to the point that she would absolutely allow her affection to interfere with so glorious a success in life, she never believed for one moment.  Of course she thought it was possible that if Beatrice could get possession of Geoffrey she might prefer to do so, but failing him, judging from her own low and vulgar standard, Elizabeth was convinced that she would take Owen.  It did not seem possible that what was so precious in her own eyes might be valueless and even hateful to those of her sister.  As for that little midnight incident, well, it was one thing and marriage was another.  People forget such events when they marry; sometimes even they marry in order to forget them.