Davies.
On Sunday morning they all went to church, including Beatrice. It was
a bare little church, and the congregation was small. Mr. Granger went
through the service with about as much liveliness as a horse driving a
machine. He ground it out, prayers, psalms, litany, lessons, all in the
same depressing way, till Geoffrey felt inclined to go to sleep, and
then took to watching Beatrice's sweet face instead. He wondered what
made her look so sad. Hers was always a sad face when in repose, that he
knew, but to-day it was particularly so, and what was more, she looked
worried as well as sad. Once or twice he saw her glance at Mr. Davies,
who was sitting opposite, the solitary occupant of an enormous pew, and
he thought that there was apprehension in her look. But Mr. Davies
did not return the glance. To judge from his appearance nothing was
troubling his mind.
Indeed, Geoffrey studying him in the same way that he instinctively
studied everybody whom he met, thought that he had never before seen a
man who looked quite so ox-like and absolutely comfortable. And yet
he never was more completely at fault.
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