," says Sartoris, coldly.

"Which, interpreted, means that I did wrong to come. I feel you are
right." He laughs faintly again, and, taking up his hat, looks
straight at his uncle. He has drawn himself up to his full height, and
is looking quite his handsomest. He is slightly flushed (a dark color
that becomes him), and a sneer lies round the corners of his lips. "I
hardly know how to apologize," he says, lightly, "for having forced
myself upon you in this intrusive fashion. The only amends I can
possibly make is to promise you it shall never occur again, and to
still further give you my word that, for the future, I shall not even
annoy you by my presence."

So saying, he turns away, and, inclining his head, goes out through
the door, and, closing it gently after him, passes rapidly down the
long hall, as though in haste to depart, and, gaining the
entrance-door, shuts it, too, behind him, and breathes more freely as
he finds the air of heaven beating on his brow.

Not until he has almost reached Sartoris once more does that sudden
calm fall upon him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of
passion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess
even to himself. His regard--nay, his affection--for Sartoris is deep
and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because
of his determination to believe the worst of him, still it remains
hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him
after such scenes as he has just gone through.

Hitherto his life has been unclouded,--has been all sunshine and happy
summer and glad with laughter. Now a dark veil hangs over it,
threatening to deaden all things and dim the brightness of his "golden
hours."

"He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be
wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects
his heart, if not his brain.

He frowns as he strides discontentedly onward through the fast-falling
night: and then all at once a thought comes to him--a fair vision
seems to rise almost in his path--that calms him and dulls all
resentful memories. It is Georgie,--his love, his darling! She, at
least, will be true to him. He will teach her so to love him that no
light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a
heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts.
He smiles again; his steps grow lighter! he is once more the Dorian of
old; he will--he mus