erpsichore, feels
devoutly thankful that his task has come to an end. He is, to say the
mildest least of him, exceedingly tiring, and Georgie is rather glad
than otherwise that Dorian should lead her into the cool recess where
flowers and perfumed fountains hold full sway. She sinks into a seat,
and sighs audibly, and looks upwards at her companion from under
half-closed lids, and then, letting them drop suddenly, plays, in a
restless fashion, with the large black fan she holds.

Branscombe is stupidly silent; indeed, it hardly occurs to him that
speech is necessary. He is gazing earnestly, tenderly, at the small
face beside him,--

"A face o'er which a thousand shadows go."

The small face, perhaps, objects to this minute scrutiny, because
presently it raises itself, and says, coquettishly,--

"How silent you are! What are you thinking of?"

"Of you," says Dorian, simply. "What a foolish question! You are a
perfect picture in that black gown, with your baby arms and neck."

"Anything else?" asks Miss Broughton, demurely.

"Yes. It also seems to me that you cannot be more than fifteen. You
look such a little thing, and so young."

"But I'm not young," says Georgie, hastily. "I am quite old. I wish
you would remember I am nearly nineteen."

"Quite a Noah's Ark sort of person,--a fossil of the pre-Adamite
period. How I envy you! You are, indeed, unique in your way. Don't be
angry with me because I said you looked young; and don't wish to be
old. There is no candor so hateful, no truth so unpleasing, as age."

"How do you know?" demands she, saucily, sweetly, half touched by his
tone. "You are not yet a Methuselah." Then, "Do you know your brother
has come at last? He is very late, isn't he?"

"He always is," says Dorian.

"And he has brought a friend with him. And who do you think it is?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," says Branscombe, turning a vivid red.

"Why, _my_ Mr. Kennedy!"

"_Your_ Mr. Kennedy?" reiterates he, blankly, his red becoming a
crimson of the liveliest hue.

"Yes, the dark thin young man I met at Sir John Lincoln's. I dare say
I told you about him?"

"Yes, you did," says Dorian, grimly.

"I see him over there," pointing airily with her fan through the open
conservatory door to a distant wall where many young men are
congregated together.

"The man with the nose?" asks Branscombe, slightingly, feeling sure in
his soul he is _not_ the man with the nose.

"He has a nose," says