s she, suddenly. "_He_ had faith in you, _he_
loved you." Without a word of warning she breaks again into a very
tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly.

"I would you could have loved him," says Fabian, in a low tone, but she
will not listen.

"Go on," she says, vehemently, "you were saying something about the
people in this house."

"That, probably, after you and Roger, I have Dicky on my side,"
continues Fabian, obediently, a still deeper grief within his haggard
eyes, "and, of course, Christopher and Mark Gore; but does Julia quite
understand me? or Stephen Gower! Forgive me, dearest, for this last."

"Don't speak to me like that," entreats she, mournfully; "what is
Stephen--what is anyone to me in comparison with you. Yet I will vouch
for Stephen. But what is it you say of Julia--surely--"

"Yes--no doubt," impatiently. "But is her mind really satisfied? If
to-morrow my innocence were shown up incontrovertibly to all the world,
she would say triumphantly, 'I told you so.' And if my guilt were
established, she would say just as triumphantly, 'I told you so,' in the
very same tone."

"You wrong her, I think. She has lived with you in this house off and on
for many months, and few have so mean a heart as Portia."

Someone, who a minute ago opened the door very gently, and is now
standing irresolute upon the threshold, turns very pale at this last
speech and lays her hand upon her heart, as though fearing, though
longing, to go forward.

"Perhaps I _do_ wrong Julia," says Fabian, indifferently. "It hardly
matters. But you must not wrong Portia. Our suspicions, as our likes and
dislikes, are not under our control; now, for example, there is old
Slyme; he hates me, as all the world can see, yet he would swear to my
innocence to-morrow."

"How do you know that?"

"I _do_ know it; by instinct, I suppose; I am one of those unhappy
people who can see through their neighbors. In spite of the hatred he
entertains for me (why I know not) his eyes betray the fact that he
thinks me guiltless of the crime imputed to me. So you see, vulgar
prejudice has nothing to do with it, and Portia is not to be censured
because she can not take me on trust."

"Oh, Fabian! how can you still love one who--"

"My dear, love and I are not to be named together, you forget that. I
must live my life apart. You can only pray that my misery may be of
short duration. But I would have you forgive Portia," he says,
gently--nay, as her name fal