is himself.

"It is the most natural thing in the world to condemn," he goes on,
somewhat excitedly. "It is only human. One feels how easy it is. If one
hears a damning story about an acquaintance, a story almost unsupported,
how readily one inclines to the cruel side. It is not worse in one than
in another. We all have a touch of savagery about us--a thirst for
blood. For the most part, if placed in a certain set number of
circumstances, we all think and act alike. That we should be cast in one
mould with the very commonest of our brethren is a humiliating thought,
but strictly within the lines of truth. You _do_ condemn me?"

He wishes to force her into saying so. She shrinks from him, and raises
one hand to her throat, as though nervous and unhappy.

"I don't know," she says at last, in a low, hesitating tone. "I know
nothing. Sometimes I don't even know myself."

"That is always a knowledge difficult of attainment," he says, slowly.
"But about me, in your heart, you are _sure_. You believe you do know.
You think me guilty." As he says the word he clenches one hand so firmly
that the nails crush into the flesh.

"I would rather not talk about it," says Portia, faintly.

By a terrible effort he recovers himself; a quick breath, that is almost
a sigh, escapes him.

"That, of course, shall be as you wish," he says, quietly; and, rousing
himself, they walk on together beneath the branching elms, in silence,
painful as it is prolonged.

Coming to a tiny stream (where he is compelled to offer and she to
accept, his hand to help her over), she glances at him, but her glance
is not returned, and then she sees that he has forgotten her very
existence, and is, in thought, miles away from her. He has entered into
some ideal realm of his own--captured during his long years of isolation
from the world.

As she is silently watching him and wondering, a dark figure, moving
from between the shrubs that hide off one angle of the house, comes into
their path, and, seeing them, makes a skulking movement to the right as
though it would gladly escape observation.

"Good evening, Slyme," says Fabian, in half kindly, half contemptuous
tone. The old man murmurs something in return. His eyes refuse to meet
Fabian's, his hands join each other, and rub palm to palm in an uneasy,
shuffling fashion. His voice is husky and slightly uncertain. His dull
old eyes roam from Fabian to Portia in an odd, questioning way, as if
debating some