everything can look, after some months'
absence, so exactly as if he had seen it only yesterday, when a small
object lying on a side-table attracts his notice.

It is a little gray glove, soiled, finger-pressed, warm as if its
owner but just a minute since had drawn it from her hand. It is yet
almost a part of the white, soft flesh it had covered. His brow
contracts, and a pained expression crosses his face. Taking it up, he
lays it in his open palm, and regards it earnestly; he hesitates, and
then, as though unable to prevent himself, he raises it and presses it
passionately to his lips. An instant later, with a contemptuous
gesture and an inward anathema upon his own weakness, he flings it
far from him through the open window down on to the balcony
beneath,--where it flutters to Mrs. Branscombe's feet!

Mechanically she stoops and picks it up. She has been hurrying towards
the house, having only just heard of her husband's arrival, she not
having expected him for some time later, trains at Pullingham being
none of the most punctual.

Gazing at the luckless glove, her whole expression changes. She is
beneath his window: was it his hand flung it so disdainfully to the
ground,--the glove she had worn such a short time before, when
gathering the flowers that are now making his room so sweet? Clasping
the unoffending bit of kid closely in her hand, she enters the house,
by a wide French window, and goes straight into Dorian's room.

At the door she hesitates, and then knocks somewhat nervously.

"Come in." His voice has been so long a stranger to her that she
almost starts on hearing it, and the last remnant of her courage
vanishes. She opens the door and goes slowly in.

Dorian's back is turned to her. His coat is off, and he is brushing
his hair before a glass in the furious fashion men, as a rule, affect.
As she enters, he turns, and putting down the brushes, regards her
with undisguised surprise. Plainly, he has not expected her.

"How d'ye do?" he says, presently. It is perfectly absurd; yet neither
of them laughs. It is the most ridiculous greeting he could possibly
have made her, considering all things; yet no sense of ridicule
touches them. They are too near to tragedy to harbor a thought of
comedy.

"I did not expect you until five," says Georgie, in a constrained
tone. "If I had known, I should have been ready to receive you."

"Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. "It is very good of you to
come