ng us something new? It's a long time, isn't
it?" Now he remembered him right.

"Rather long. I'm very slow." Paul explained. "I met you at Summersoft
a long time ago."

"Oh yes--with Henry St. George. I remember very well. Before his poor
wife--" General Fancourt paused a moment, smiling a little less. "I dare
say you know."

"About Mrs. St. George's death? Certainly--I heard at the time."

"Oh no, I mean--I mean he's to be married."

"Ah I've not heard that!" But just as Paul was about to add "To whom?"
the General crossed his intention.

"When did you come back? I know you've been away--by my daughter. She
was very sorry. You ought to give her something new."

"I came back last night," said our young man, to whom something had
occurred which made his speech for the moment a little thick.

"Ah most kind of you to come so soon. Couldn't you turn up at dinner?"

"At dinner?" Paul just mechanically repeated, not liking to ask whom St.
George was going to marry, but thinking only of that.

"There are several people, I believe. Certainly St. George. Or
afterwards if you like better. I believe my daughter expects--" He
appeared to notice something in the visitor's raised face (on his steps
he stood higher) which led him to interrupt himself, and the interruption
gave him a momentary sense of awkwardness, from which he sought a quick
issue. "Perhaps then you haven't heard she's to be married."

Paul gaped again. "To be married?"

"To Mr. St. George--it has just been settled. Odd marriage, isn't it?"
Our listener uttered no opinion on this point: he only continued to
stare. "But I dare say it will do--she's so awfully literary!" said the
General.

Paul had turned very red. "Oh it's a surprise--very interesting, very
charming! I'm afraid I can't dine--so many thanks!"

"Well, you must come to the wedding!" cried the General. "Oh I remember
that day at Summersoft. He's a great man, you know."

"Charming--charming!" Paul stammered for retreat. He shook hands with
the General and got off. His face was red and he had the sense of its
growing more and more crimson. All the evening at home--he went straight
to his rooms and remained there dinnerless--his cheek burned at intervals
as if it had been smitten. He didn't understand what had happened to
him, what trick had been played him, what treachery practised. "None,
none," he said to himself. "I've nothing to do with it. I'm out of
i