as
though it is hateful to her. "I am going out because I wish to be
alone."

She sweeps past him through the old hall and out into the darkening
sunlight, without a backward glance or another word. Amazed, puzzled,
Branscombe stands gazing after her until the last fold of her dress
has disappeared, the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone
steps beyond; then he turns aside, and, feeling, if possible, more
astonished than hurt, goes back to the library.

From this hour begins the settled coldness between Dorian and his
wife that is afterwards to bear such bitter fruit. She assigns no
actual reason for her changed demeanor; and Dorian, at first, is too
proud to demand an explanation,--though perhaps never yet has he loved
her so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness are
coldly and obstinately rejected.

Not until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon the middle of
August, does it dawn upon him why Georgie has been so different of
late.

Sir James Scrope is dining with them, and, shortly after the servants
have withdrawn, he makes some casual mention of Ruth Annersley's name.
No notice is taken of it at the time, the conversation changes almost
directly into a fresh channel, but Dorian, happening to glance across
the table at his wife, sees that she has grown absolutely livid, and
really, for the instant, fears she is going to faint. Only for an
instant! Then she recovers herself, and makes some careless remark,
and is quite her usual self again.

But he cannot forget that sudden pallor, and like a flash the truth
comes to him, and he knows he is foul and despicable in the eyes of
the only woman he loves.

When Sir James has gone, he comes over to her, and, leaning his elbow
on the chimney-piece, stands in such a position as enables him to
command a full view of her face.

"Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth," he says, purposely
introducing the subject again. "It certainly is remarkable that no
tidings of her have ever since reached Pullingham."

Georgie makes no reply. The nights have already grown chilly and there
is a fire in the grate, before which she is standing warming her
hands. One foot,--a very lovely little foot,--clad in a black shoe
relieved by large silver buckles, is resting on the fender, and on
this her eyes are riveted, as though lost in admiration of its beauty,
though in truth she sees it not at all.

"I can hardly understand her silence,