way of looking at things,
from which, however, Mr. Granger seemed to draw a little comfort. From
constantly thinking about it, and the daily pressure of necessity, money
had come to be more to the old man than anything else in the world.

Hardly was the meal done when three reporters arrived and took down
Geoffrey's statement of what had occurred, for publication in various
papers, while Beatrice went away to see about packing Effie's things.
They were to start by a train leaving for London at half-past eight on
the following morning. When Beatrice came back it was half-past ten, and
in his irritation of mind Mr. Granger insisted upon everybody going
to bed. Elizabeth shook hands with Geoffrey, congratulating him on his
escape as she did so, and went at once; but Beatrice lingered a little.
At last she came forward and held out her hand.

"Good-night, Mr. Bingham," she said.

"Good-night. I hope that this is not good-bye also," he added with some
anxiety.

"Of course not," broke in Mr. Granger. "Beatrice will go and see you
off. I can't; I have to go and meet the coroner about the inquest, and
Elizabeth is always busy in the house. Luckily they won't want you;
there were so many witnesses."

"Then it is only good-night," said Beatrice.

She went to her room. Elizabeth, who shared it, was already asleep, or
pretending to be asleep. Then Beatrice undressed and got into bed, but
rest she could not. It was "only good-night," a last good-night. He was
going away--back to his wife, back to the great rushing world, and to
the life in which she had no share. Very soon he would forget her. Other
interests would arise, other women would become his friends, and he
would forget the Welsh girl who had attracted him for a while, or
remember her only as the companion of a rough adventure. What did it
mean? Why was her heart so sore? Why had she felt as though she should
die when they told her that he was dead?

Then the answer rose in her breast. She loved him; it was useless to
deny the truth--she loved him body, and heart and soul, with all
her mind and all her strength. She was his, and his alone--to-day,
to-morrow, and for ever. He might go from her sight, she might never,
never see him more, but love him she always must. And he was married!

Well, it was her misfortune; it could not affect the solemn truth.
What should she do now, how should she endure her life when her eyes
no longer saw his eyes, and her ears never he