very pale, too, and is shrinking from him. Her lips are white
and trembling; her beautiful eyes are large and full of an undefined
fear. The passion of his tone has carried her away with it, and has
subdued within her all desire for mockery or mirth. Her whole face has
changed its expression, and has become sad and appealing. This sudden
touch of fear and entreaty makes her so sweet that Dorian's anger
melts before it, and the great love of which it was part again takes
the upper hand.

Impulsively he takes her in his arms, and draws her close to him, as
though he would willingly shield her from all evil and chase the
unspoken fear from her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, earnestly. "I deserve it, I
know. I should not have spoken to you as I have done, but I could not
help it. You made me so miserable--do you know how miserable?--that I
forgot myself. Darling, don't turn from me; speak to me; forgive me!"

This sudden change from vehement reproach to as vehement tenderness
frightens Georgie just a little more than the anger of a moment since.
Laying her hand upon his chest, she draws back from him; and he,
seeing she really wishes to get away from him, instantly releases her.

As if fascinated, however, she never removes her gaze from his,
although large tears have risen, and are shining in her eyes.

"You don't hate me? I won't believe that," says Branscombe,
wretchedly. "Say you will try to love me, and that you will surely
marry me."

At this--feeling rather lost, and not knowing what else to do--Georgie
covers her face with her hands, and bursts out crying.

It is now Branscombe's turn to be frightened, and he does his part to
perfection. He is thoroughly and desperately frightened.

"I won't say another word," he says, hastily; "I won't, indeed. My
dearest, what have I said that you should be so distressed? I only
asked you to marry me."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what more you could have said," sobs she,
still dissolved in tears, and in a tone full of injury.

"But there wasn't any harm in that," protests he, taking one of her
hands from her face and pressing it softly to his lips. "It is a sort
of thing" (expansively) "one does every day."

"Do you do it every day?"

"No: I never did it before. And" (very gently) "you will answer me,
won't you?"

No answer, however, is vouchsafed.

"Georgie, say you will marry me."

But Georgie either can't or won't say it; and Dorian's heart d