uchsafed by the younger
man.

Such an explanation it is out of Dorian's power to give. The
occurrence altogether was unhappy, but really nothing worthy of a
violent quarrel. Branscombe, as is his nature, pertinaciously thrusts
the whole affair out of sight, refusing to let it trouble him, except
on such occasions as the present, when it pushes itself upon him
unawares, and will not be suppressed.

Horace has never been to Pullingham since the night of the ball, and
his letters to Clarissa have been many and constant, so that Dorian's
suspicions have somewhat languished, and are now, indeed, almost dead,
he being slow to entertain evil thoughts of any one.

Ruth Annersley, too, though plainly desirous of avoiding his society
ever since his meeting with her in the shrubberies, seems happy and
content, if very quiet and subdued. Once, indeed, coming upon her
unexpectedly, he had been startled by an expression in her eyes
foreign to their usual calm; it was a look half terrified, half
defiant, and it haunted him for some time afterwards. But the
remembrance of that faded, too; and she had never afterwards risked
the chance of a _tete-a-tete_ with him.

* * * * *

Meantime, Miss Peyton's little romance about the Broughton-Hastings
affair rather falls to bits. Georgie, taking advantage of an afternoon
that sees the small Redmonds on the road to a juvenile party, goes up
to Gowran, and, making her way to the morning room, runs to Clarissa
and gives her a dainty little hug.

"Aren't you glad I have come?" she says, with the utmost _naivete_.
"I'm awfully glad myself. The children have all gone to the Dugdales',
and so I am my own mistress."

"And so you came to me," says Clarissa.

"Yes, of course."

"And now, to make you happy," says Clarissa, meditatively.

"Don't take any thought about that. It is already an accomplished
fact. I am with _you_, and therefore I am perfectly happy."

"Still, you so seldom get a holiday," goes on Clarissa, regretfully,
which is a little unfair, as the Redmonds are the easiest-going people
in the world, and have a sort of hankering after the giving of
holidays and the encouragement of idleness generally. The vicar,
indeed, is laden with a suppressed and carefully hidden theory that
children should never do anything but laugh and sit in the sun. In his
heart of hearts he condemns all Sunday-schools, as making the most
blessed day one of toil, and a wea