Geoffrey wondered if he had had an
illness. At that moment Owen chanced to look round and saw him.
"How do you do, Mr. Bingham?" he said. "I heard that you were here. They
told me at the station last night. You see this is a small place and one
likes to know who comes and goes," he added as though in excuse.
He walked on and Geoffrey walked with him.
"You do not look well, Mr. Davies," he said. "Have you been laid up?"
"No, no," he answered, "I am quite right; it is only my mind that is
ill."
"Indeed," said Geoffrey, thinking that he certainly did look strange.
"Perhaps you live too much alone and it depresses you."
"Yes, I live alone, because I can't help myself. What is a man to do,
Mr. Bingham, when the woman he loves will not marry him, won't look at
him, treats him like dirt?"
"Marry somebody else," suggested Geoffrey.
"Oh, it is easy for you to say that--you have never loved anybody, and
you don't understand. I cannot marry anybody else, I want her only."
"Her? Whom?"
"Who! why, Beatrice--whom else could a man want to marry, if once he had
seen her.
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