"It is such an unaccountable story," says Scrope, lifting his brows. "Where did she go? and with whom? Such a quiet little mouse of a girl, one hardly understands her being the heroine of a tragedy. But how does it particularly affect you?" Branscombe hesitates. For one brief moment he wonders whether he shall or shall not reveal to Scrope the scene that has passed between him and his uncle. Then his whole sympathies revolt from the task, and he determines to let things rest as they now are. "Arthur has tormented himself needlessly about the whole business," he says, turning his face from Scrope. "He thinks me--that is, every one--to blame, until the girl is restored to her father." "Ah! I quite see," says James Scrope. CHAPTER XXIII. "Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even." "Dorian?" says Clarissa. "Clarissa!" says Dorian. "I really think I shall give a ball." "What?" cries a small, sweet, plaintive voice from the corner, and Georgie, emerging from obscurity and the tremendous volume she has been studying, comes to the front, in her usual vehement fashion, and stands before Miss Peyton, expectation in every feature. "Oh, Clarissa, do say it again." "Papa says I must entertain the county in some way," says Clarissa, meditatively, "and I really think a ball will be the best way. Don't you?" "Don't I, though?" says Miss Broughton, with much vivacity. "Clarissa, you grow sweeter daily. Let me offer you some small return for your happy thought." She laughs, and, stooping, presses her warm ripe lips against her friend's cheek. She blushes as she performs this graceful act, and a small, bright, mischievous gleam grows within her eye. The whole action is half mocking, half tender: "A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns, And sweet as English air can make her, she." The lines come hurriedly to Branscombe's mind, and linger there. Raising her head again, her eyes meet his, and she laughs, for the second time, out of the pure gladness of her heart. "I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, mildly. "_I_ suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. Might not I, too, partake of the 'small return'?" "It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,--here," says Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one finger; "but for that," with a slow adorable glance, "I should be charmed." "I think I shall get pencil and paper and write down the names," says Clarissa, energetically, rising and going towards the door. "Dorian, take care of Georgie until I return." "I wish I knew how," says Branscombe, in a tone so low that only Georgie can hear it. Then, as the door closes he says, "Did you mean your last speech?" "My last? What was it? I never remember anything." She very seldom blushes, but now again a soft delicate color creeps into her face. "If you _hadn't_ given it all away, would you have given me a little of that small return?" "No." "Not even if _I_ were to give a ball for you?"