back upon what he has just heard, he examines in
his mind each little detail of the wretched history imparted to him by
his uncle. All the suspicions--lulled to rest through lack of matter
wherewith to feed them--now come to life again, and grow in size and
importance in spite of his intense desire to suppress them.

On Tuesday night the girl had left her home. On Tuesday morning he had
been to Horace's rooms, had found him there, had sat and conversed
with him for upwards of an hour on different subjects,--chiefly, he
now remembers, of Clarissa Peyton.

The day had been warm, and he had taken off his coat (the light
overcoat he had affected for the past month), and had thrown it on a
chair, and--_left it there when going_!

The next morning he had called again and found the coat in the very
self-same place where he had thrown it. But in the mean time, during
all the hours that intervened between the afternoon of one day and the
forenoon of another, where had it been?

"The very coat you wore was minutely described."--The words come back
upon him with a sudden rush, causing him a keener pang than any he has
ever yet known. Must he indeed bring himself to believe that his own
brother had made use of the coat with the deliberate intention (should
chance fling any intruder in the way) of casting suspicion upon
him--Dorian?

In the dusk of the evening any one might easily mistake one brother
for the other. They are the same height; the likeness between them is
remarkable. He almost hates himself for the readiness with which he
pieces his story together, making doubt merge with such entirety into
conviction.

The evening is passing fair, yet it brings no comfort to his soul; the
trees towering upwards lie heavily against the sky; the breath of many
flowers makes rich the air. Already the faint moon arising, throws
her "silver light o'er half the world," and makes more blue the azure
depths above:

"Star follows star, though yet day's golden light
Upon the hills and headlands faintly streams."

The far-off grating sound of the corncrake can be heard; the cuckoo's
tuneless note, incessant and unmusical, tires the early night. The
faint sweet chirrups of many insects come from far and near, and break
upon the sense with a soft and lulling harmony:

"There is no stir, nor breath of air; the plains
Lie slumbering in the close embrace of night."

All nature seems sinking into one grand repose, wherein strife a