t to say anything that is unkind to me; and--and I
_hate_ people who are always in the right."

With this she turns, and, regardless of him, walks hurriedly, and
plainly full of childish rage, back to the house.

Dorian, stricken with remorse, follows her.

"Georgie, forgive me! I didn't mean it; I swear I didn't!" he says,
calling her by her Christian name for the first time, and quite
unconsciously. "Don't leave me like this; or, at least let me call
to-morrow and explain."

"I don't want to see you to-morrow or any other day," declares Miss
Broughton, with cruel emphasis, not even turning her head to him as
she speaks.

"But you shall see me to-morrow," exclaims he, seizing her hand, as
she reaches the conservatory door, to detain her. "You will be here; I
shall come to see you. I entreat, I implore you not to deny yourself
to me." Raising her hand, he presses it with passionate fervor to his
lips.

Georgie, detaching her hand from his grasp, moves away from him.

"'Must is for the queen, and shall is for the king,'" quotes she, with
a small pout, "and to-morrow--catch me if you can!"

She frowns slightly, and, with a sudden movement, getting behind a
large flowering shrub, disappears from his gaze for the night.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love: it stands alone."--BYRON.

Next day is born, lives, grows, deepens; and, as the first cold breath
of even declares itself, Dorian rides down the avenue that leads to
Gowran.

Miss Peyton is not at home (he has asked first for her, as in duty
bound), and Miss Broughton is in the grounds somewhere. This is vague.
The man offers warmly to discover her and bring her back to the house
to receive Mr. Branscombe; but this Mr. Branscombe will not permit.
Having learned the direction in which she is gone, he follows it, and
glides into a region wherein only fairies should have right to dwell.

A tangled mass of grass, and blackberry, and fern; a dying sunlight,
deep and tender; soft beds of tawny moss. Myriad bluebells are alive,
and, spreading themselves, far and wide, in one rich carpeting (whose
color puts to shame the pale blue of the heavenly vault above), make
one harmonious blending with their green straight leaves.

Far as the eye can reach they spread, and, as the light and wanton
wind stoops to caress them, shake their tiny bells with a coquettish
grace, and fling forth perfume to