here now. It is more than I expected."

"I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have something to
tell you, that should be told without delay."

"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?"

"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him;
though, of course, it must touch him very nearly."

"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit
down while you tell me your news."

"No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly over the other,
and leans against the wall; she cannot, try as she will, remove her
eyes from his face. "What I want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth
Annersley!"

"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?"

"With--your brother!"

Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there so that his face
cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond measure. So his old suspicions
have proved true, after all, and Horace's protestations were as basest
lies. He feels sick at heart for his brother's honor,--that miserable
remnant of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced to
rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again.

"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily.

"Clarissa."

"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her
the discoverer?"

"Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of pure love for
him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth Annersley!"

"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,--so trusting."

Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon
her?--she, who has so failed in faith and love?

"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently,
in an absent, weary way.

"Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She forces herself
to come nearer to him, and now stands before him like a small pale
culprit, unable to lift her eyes to his. "I want to tell you how
deeply I regret the injustice, the--"

"No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be said about that.
It would be worse than useless. Why waste words over what can never be
undone?"

Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker,
and her lips are trembling.

"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed sob. "I
want to ask you, if possible, to forg----"

"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," he
interrupts her, gravely.

"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted the wr