ice did not like him in that way. To
a girl of her curious stamp his wealth was nothing. She did not covet
wealth, she coveted independence, and had the sense to know that
marriage with such a man would not bring it. A cage is a cage, whether
the bars are of iron or gold. He bored her, she despised him for his
want of intelligence and enterprise. That a man with all this wealth and
endless opportunity should waste his life in such fashion was to her a
thing intolerable. She knew if she had half his chance, that she would
make her name ring from one end of Europe to the other. In short,
Beatrice held Owen as deeply in contempt as her sister Elizabeth,
studying him from another point of view, held him in reverence. And
putting aside any human predilections, Beatrice would never have married
a man whom she despised. She respected herself too much.

Owen Davies saw all this as through a glass darkly, and in his own slow
way cast about for a means of drawing near. He discovered that Beatrice
was passionately fond of learning, and also that she had no means to
obtain the necessary books. So he threw open his library to her; it
was one of the best in Wales. He did more; he gave orders to a London
bookseller to forward him every new book of importance that appeared
in certain classes of literature, and all of these he placed at her
disposal, having first carefully cut the leaves with his own hand. This
was a bait Beatrice could not resist. She might dread or even detest Mr.
Davies, but she loved his books, and if she quarrelled with him her
well of knowledge would simply run dry, for there were no circulating
libraries at Bryngelly, and if there had been she could not have
afforded to subscribe to them. So she remained on good terms with him,
and even smiled at his futile attempts to keep pace with her studies.
Poor man, reading did not come naturally to him; he was much better at
cutting leaves. He studied the _Times_ and certain religious works, that
was all. But he wrestled manfully with many a detested tome, in order to
be able to say something to Beatrice about it, and the worst of it was
that Beatrice always saw through it, and showed him that she did. It was
not kind, perhaps, but youth is cruel.

And so the years wore on, till at length Beatrice knew that a crisis
was at hand. Even the tardiest and most retiring lover must come to the
point at last, if he is in earnest, and Owen Davies was very much in
earnest. Of late