The sea was still quiet, but it moaned like a thing
in pain. The storm was gathering fast.
"What a lovely sunset," said Geoffrey at length.
"It is a fatal sort of loveliness," she answered; "it will be a bad
night, and a wet morrow. The wind is rising; shall we turn?"
"No, Beatrice, never mind the wind. I want to speak to you, if you will
allow me to do so."
"Yes," said Beatrice, "what about, Mr. Bingham."
To make good resolutions in a matter of this sort is comparatively
easy, but the carrying of them out presents some difficulties. Geoffrey,
conscience-stricken into priggishness, wished to tell her that she
would do well to marry Owen Davies, and found the matter hard. Meanwhile
Beatrice preserved silence.
"The fact is," he said at length, "I most sincerely hope you will
forgive me, but I have been thinking a great deal about you and your
future welfare."
"That is very kind of you," said Beatrice, with an ominous humility.
This was disconcerting, but Geoffrey was determined, and he went on in
a somewhat flippant tone born of the most intense nervousness and hatred
of his task.
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