“Oh, no; it was the footsteps, Miss Granger, and the gossip, and the appointment you made in the churchyard, that I unwillingly overheard, not the gossip alone which led me into my mistake.  Of course I have now to apologise.”

Again Beatrice stamped her foot.  She saw that he was still mocking her, and felt that he did not believe her.

“There,” he went on, stung into unkindness by his biting but unacknowledged jealousy, for she was right—­on reflection he did not quite believe what she said as to her not being engaged.  “How unfortunate I am—­I have said something to make you angry again.  Why did you not walk with Mr. Davies?  I should then have remained guiltless of offence, and you would have had a more agreeable companion.  You want to quarrel with me; what shall we quarrel about?  There are many things on which we are diametrically opposed; let us start one.”

It was too much, for though his words were nothing the tone in which he spoke gave them a sting.  Beatrice, already disturbed in mind by the scene through which she had passed, her breast already throbbing with a vague trouble of which she did not know the meaning, for once in her life lost control of herself and grew hysterical.  Her grey eyes filled with tears, the corners of her sweet mouth dropped, and she looked very much as though she were going to burst out weeping.

“It is most unkind of you,” she said, with a half sob.  “If you knew how much I have to put up with, you would not speak to me like that.  I know that you do not believe me; very well, I will tell you the truth.  Yes, though I have no business to do it, and you have no right—­none at all—­to make me do it, I will tell you the truth, because I cannot bear that you should not believe me.  Mr. Davies did want me to marry him and I refused him.  I put him off for a while; I did this because I knew that if I did not he would go to my father.  It was cowardly, but my father would make my life wretched——­” and again she gave a half-choked sob.

Much has been said and written about the effect produced upon men by the sight of a lady in, or on the border line of tears, and there is no doubt that this effect is considerable.  Man being in his right mind is deeply moved by such a spectacle, also he is frightened because he dreads a scene.  Now most people would rather walk ten miles in their dress shoes than have to deal with a young lady in hysterics, however modified.  Putting the peculiar circumstances of the case aside, Geoffrey was no exception to this rule.  It was all very well to cross spears with Beatrice, who had quite an equal wit, and was very capable of retaliation, but to see her surrender at discretion was altogether another thing.  Indeed he felt much ashamed of himself.

“Please don’t—­don’t—­be put out,” he said.  He did not like to use the word “cry.”  “I was only laughing at you, but I ought not to have spoken as I did.  I did not wish to force your confidence, indeed I did not.  I never thought of such a thing.  I am so sorry.”