This
was a bait Beatrice could not resist. She might dread or even detest Mr.
Davies, but she loved his books, and if she quarrelled with him her
well of knowledge would simply run dry, for there were no circulating
libraries at Bryngelly, and if there had been she could not have
afforded to subscribe to them. So she remained on good terms with him,
and even smiled at his futile attempts to keep pace with her studies.
Poor man, reading did not come naturally to him; he was much better at
cutting leaves. He studied the _Times_ and certain religious works, that
was all. But he wrestled manfully with many a detested tome, in order to
be able to say something to Beatrice about it, and the worst of it was
that Beatrice always saw through it, and showed him that she did. It was
not kind, perhaps, but youth is cruel.
And so the years wore on, till at length Beatrice knew that a crisis
was at hand. Even the tardiest and most retiring lover must come to the
point at last, if he is in earnest, and Owen Davies was very much in
earnest. Of late, to her dismay, he had so far come out of his shell
as to allow himself to be nominated a member of the school council.
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