go made up our minds that
Solon when compared with us was a very poor creature indeed."

"A perfect fool!" says Mrs. Branscombe, with conviction.

The brightness of their tone, their whole manner, tell Clarissa that
some good and wonderful change has taken place.

"Then why is Dorian going abroad, instead of staying at home like
other people?" she says, uncertainly, feeling still puzzled.

"He isn't going anywhere: I have forbidden him!" says Mrs. Branscombe,
with saucy shyness.

"Oh, Jim, they have made it up!" says Miss Peyton, making this vulgar
remark with so much joy and feeling in her voice as robs it of all its
commonplaceness. She turns to Scrope as she says this, her eyes large
with delight.

"We have," says Georgie, sweetly. "Haven't we Dorian?" And then again
slipping her hand into his, "He is going to stay at home always for
the future: aren't you, Dorian?"

"I am going to stay just wherever you are for the rest of my life,"
says Dorian; and then Clarissa and James know that everything has come
all right.

"Then you will be at home for our wedding," says Scrope, taking
Clarissa's hand and turning to Branscombe.

Clarissa blushes very much, and Georgie, going up to her, kisses her
heartily.

"It is altogether quite too nice," says Mrs. Branscombe, with tears in
her eyes.

"If you don't look out, Scrope, she will kiss you too," says Dorian.
"Look here, it is nearly six o'clock, and dinner will be at seven.
Come back, you two, and dine with us."

"I should like to very much," says Clarissa, "as papa is in town."

"Well, then, come," says Georgie, tucking her arm comfortably into
hers, "and we'll send you home at eleven."

"I hope you will send me home too," says Scrope, meekly.

"Yes, by the other road," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a small grimace.
And then she presses Clarissa's arm against her side, and tells her,
without the slightest provocation, that she is a "darling," and that
everything is quite, quite, _quite_ TOO delicious!

* * * * *

That evening, in the library, when Georgie and Dorian are once more
alone, Branscombe, turning to her, takes her in his arms.

"You are quite happy?" he asks, questioningly. "You have no regrets
now?"

"Not one," very earnestly. "But you, Dorian,"--she slips an arm round
his neck, and brings his face down closer to her own, as though to
read the expression of his eyes more clearly,--"are you satisfied?
Think how un