ld man,
musingly, heedless of the brilliant interlude, "raising its little
head sadly among gay garden-plants that care not for her, whilst
beyond the hedge that bounds her garden she can watch her own species
grow and flourish in wild luxuriance. Her life can scarcely be called
happy. There must always be a want, a craving for what can never be
obtained. Surely the one that could bring sorrow to that pure heart,
or tears to those gentle eyes, should be----"

"Asphyxiated," puts in Dorian, idly. He yawns languidly and pulls the
head off a tall dandelion, that adorns the wayside, in a somewhat
desultory fashion. The color in the older man's cheeks grows a shade
deeper, and a gesture, as full of impatience as of displeasure,
escapes him.

"There are some subjects," he says, with calm severity, "that it would
be well to place beyond the reach of ridicule."

"Am I one of them?" says Dorian, lightly. Then, glancing at his
uncle's face, he checks himself, and goes on quickly. "I beg your
pardon, I'm sure. I have been saying something unlucky, as usual. Of
course I agree with you on all points, Arthur, and think the man who
could wilfully bring a blush to Ruth Annersley's cheek neither more
nor less than a blackguard _pur et simple_. By the by, that last
little homely phrase comes in badly there, doesn't it? Rather out of
keeping with the vituperative noun, eh!"

"Rather," returns Sartoris, shortly. He drops his nephew's arm,
and walks on in silence. As a rule, Dorian's careless humor suits
him; it amuses and adds a piquancy to a life that without it
(now that Dorian's society has become indispensable to him) would
prove "flat, stale, and unprofitable." But to-day, he hardly knows
why,--or, perhaps, hardly dares to know why,--his nephew's easy
light-heartedness jars upon him, vexing him sorely.

As they turn the corner of the road and go down the hill, they meet
Horace, coming towards them at a rapid pace. As he sees them, he
slackens his speed and approaches more slowly.

"Just as well I met you," he says, with an airy laugh, "as my thoughts
were running away with me, and Phoebus Apollo is in the ascendant:
veritably he 'rules the roast.' This uphill work is trying on the
lungs."

"Where have you been?" asks Dorian, just because he has nothing else
to say, and it is such a bore to think.

"At Gowran."

"Ah! I'm going there now. You saw Clarissa, then?" says Sartoris,
quickly. "When do you return to town, Horace?"