"The girl has left her home; has not been heard of since last Tuesday. They fear she has wilfully flung up happiness and honor to gain--misery." "What a charitable place is a small village!" says Horace, with a shrug. "Why should the estimable Pullinghamites imagine so much evil? Perhaps, finding life in that stagnate hole unendurable, Ruth threw up the whole concern, and is now seeking a subsistence honorably. Perhaps, too, she has married. Perhaps----" "Why do you not suppose her dead?" says Dorian, tapping the table with his forefinger, his eyes fixed moodily on the pattern of the maroon-colored cloth. "All such speculations are equally absurd. I hardly came to London to listen to such vain imaginings." "Then--I think I barely understand you," says Horace, amicably; "you came because----?" "Because I fancied I had here the best chance of hearing about her," interrupts Dorian, bluntly, losing patience a little. "How fearfully you blunder!" returns Horace, still quite calmly,--nay, in even a tone that might be called amused. "If you mean that I have had anything to do with her vamoose, I beg to say your imagination has run wild. You can search the place if you like. The old lady who attends to my wants will probably express some faint disapprobation when you invade the sanctity of her chamber, but beyond that no unpleasantness need be anticipated. This is her favorite hour for imbibing brandy--_my_ brandy, you will understand (she takes it merely as a tonic, being afflicted--as she tells me--with what she is pleased to term 'nightly trimbles'): so if, in the course of your wanderings, you chance to meet her, and she openly molests you, don't blame me." "Is that all you can tell me?" "All about my old lady, certainly." "And of Ruth?" "I know nothing, as _you_ should understand." He laughs significantly. "What do you mean?" demands Dorian, a little fiercely. His eyes are dark and flashing, his lips compressed. "What can I mean, except that you are ridiculously absurd?" says Horace, rising. "What is it you expect me to say? I can't get you out of it. I always knew you had a _penchant_ for her, but never thought it would carry you so far. If you will take my advice, however, you will be milder about it, and take that look off your face. If you go in for society with that cut-up expression in your eyes, people will talk." "Then you know nothing?" repeats Branscombe, taking no notice of--perhaps not even hearing--the foregoing speech. "Absolutely nothing. How should I?" says Horace, with his soft smooth smile. "Have a brandy-and-soda, Dorian, or a little curaçoa? Perhaps, indeed, the brandy will be best (always allowing Mrs. McGinty has left me any), you look so thoroughly done up." "Thank you,--nothing." He gazes at his brother long and earnestly. "The Branscombe word _ought_ to be sure," he says, moodily.