nd she openly molests you, don't blame me."

"Is that all you can tell me?"

"All about my old lady, certainly."

"And of Ruth?"

"I know nothing, as _you_ should understand." He laughs significantly.

"What do you mean?" demands Dorian, a little fiercely. His eyes are
dark and flashing, his lips compressed.

"What can I mean, except that you are ridiculously absurd?" says
Horace, rising. "What is it you expect me to say? I can't get you out
of it. I always knew you had a _penchant_ for her, but never thought
it would carry you so far. If you will take my advice, however, you
will be milder about it, and take that look off your face. If you go
in for society with that cut-up expression in your eyes, people will
talk."

"Then you know nothing?" repeats Branscombe, taking no notice
of--perhaps not even hearing--the foregoing speech.

"Absolutely nothing. How should I?" says Horace, with his soft smooth
smile. "Have a brandy-and-soda, Dorian, or a little curacoa? Perhaps,
indeed, the brandy will be best (always allowing Mrs. McGinty has left
me any), you look so thoroughly done up."

"Thank you,--nothing." He gazes at his brother long and earnestly.
"The Branscombe word _ought_ to be sure," he says, moodily.

"Still unconvinced!" says Horace, with an airy laugh. "I know I ought
to take you by the shoulders, Dorian, and pitch you down the stairs;
but, somehow, I haven't the pluck to-night. I am overdone through this
abominable law, and--you are such a tremendous fellow when compared
with me. Must you really be off so soon? Stay and have a cup of
coffee? No? Well, if it must be, good-night."

Dorian goes down the stairs,--puzzled, bewildered, almost convinced.
At the foot of the staircase he looks up again, to see Horace standing
above him still, candle in hand, radiant, smiling, _debonnaire_,
apparently without a care in the world.

He nods to him, and Dorian, returning the salute in grave and silent
fashion, goes out into the lighted streets, and walks along in
momentary expectation of a hansom, when a well known voice smites upon
his ear:

"What in the name of wonder, Branscombe, brings you here?"

Turning, he finds himself face to face with Sir James Scrope.

"My presence is hardly an eighth wonder," he says, wearily. "But how
is it you are not in Paris?"

"Fate ordained it so, and probably fortune, as I just want a friend
with whom to put in an evening."

"You have chosen a dull companion," says Do