He went into the sitting-room. It was full
of memories and tokens of Beatrice. There lay a novel which he had given
her, and there was yesterday's paper that she had brought from town, the
_Standard_, with his speech in it.
Geoffrey covered his eyes with his hand, and thought. None knew that she
had committed suicide except himself. If he revealed it things might be
said of her; he did not care what was said of him, but he was jealous of
her dead name. It might be said, for instance, that the whole tale
was true, and that Beatrice died because she could no longer face life
without being put to an open shame. Yes, he had better hold his tongue
as to how and why she died. She was dead--nothing could bring her back.
But how then should he account for his presence there? Easily enough.
He would say frankly that he came because Beatrice had written to him
of the charges made against her and the threats against himself--came
to find her dead. And on that point he would still have a word with Owen
Davies and Elizabeth.
Scarcely had he made up his mind when Elizabeth and her father entered.
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