as made
first; are you not going to keep it?"

"Of course I am going to keep it; I always keep my engagements when I
have any."

"Very well, then; I shall expect you at three o'clock."

Beatrice went on home in a curiously irritated condition of mind. She
did not, naturally, want to go to the Castle, and she did want to go out
with Geoffrey. However, there was no help for it.

When she came in to dinner she found that Geoffrey was not there. He
had, it seemed, gone to lunch with Dr. Chambers, whom he had met on the
beach. Before he returned they were all three starting for the Castle,
Beatrice leaving a message to this effect with Betty.

About a quarter of an hour afterwards, Geoffrey came back to fetch his
gun and Beatrice, but Beatrice was gone, and all that he could extract
from Betty was that she had gone to see Mr. Davies.

He was perfectly furious, though all the while he knew how unreasonable
was his anger. He had been looking forward to the expedition, and this
sudden change of plan was too much for his temper. Off he started,
however, to pass a thoroughly miserable afternoon. He seemed to miss
Beatrice more each step and gradually to grow more and more angry at
what he called her "rudeness." Of course it never occurred to him that
what he was really angry at was her going to see Mr. Davies, or that, in
truth, her society had become so delightful to him that to be deprived
of it even for an afternoon was to be wretched. To top everything, he
only got three good shots that afternoon, and he missed them all, which
made him crosser than ever.

As for Beatrice, she enjoyed herself just as little at the Castle as
Geoffrey did on the beach. Owen Davies took them through the great
unused rooms and showed them the pictures, but she had seen them before,
and though some of them were very fine, did not care to look at them
again--at any rate, not that afternoon. But Elizabeth gazed at them with
eager eyes and mentally appraised their value, wondering if they would
ever be hers.

"What is this picture?" she asked, pointing to a beautiful portrait of a
Dutch Burgomaster by Rembrandt.

"That," answered Davies heavily, for he knew nothing of painting and
cared less, "that is a Velasquez, valued for probate at L3,000--no,"
referring to the catalogue and reading, "I beg your pardon, the next is
the Velasquez; that is a Rembrandt in the master's best style, showing
all his wonderful mastery over light and shade. It w