"You have never yet denied it," exclaims Sartoris, pushing back his glass, and rising to his feet. "Give me the lie direct, if you _can_,--if you _dare_,--and I will believe you." "I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly roused,--"_never!_ If my own character all these past years is not denial enough, I shall give no other. Believe what you will. Do you imagine I shall come to you, like a whipped school-boy, after every supposed offence, to say, 'I did do this,' or, 'I did not do that'? I shall contradict nothing, assert nothing: therefore judge me as it may please you. I shall not try to vindicate my actions to any living man." His tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction to the hearts of most men; but to the old lord, who has seen so much of the world in its worst phases,--its cruelties and falsehoods,--and who has roughed it so long among his fellowmen, faith, in its finer sense, is wanting. "Enough," he says, coldly, with a slight wave of his hand. "Let us end this subject now and forever. You have come to tell me of your approaching marriage; may I ask the name of the lady you intend making your wife?" "Broughton; Georgie Broughton," says Branscombe, briefly. "Broughton,--I hardly fancy I know the name; and yet am I wrong in thinking there is a governess at the vicarage of that name?" "There _was_. She is now staying with Clarissa Peyton, I am to be married to her, as I have already told you, early next month." "A _governess_!" says Sartoris. There is a world of unpleasant meaning in his tone. "Really,"--with slow contempt,--"I can hardly congratulate you on your _tastes_! You, who might have chosen your wife almost anywhere, can find nothing to suit you but an obscure governess." "I don't think there is anything particularly obscure about Georgie," replies Dorian, with admirable composure, though he flushes hotly. "Have you ever seen her? No? Then, of course, you are not in a position to judge of either her merits or demerits. I shall thank you, therefore,"--surveying his uncle rather insolently, from head to heel,--"to be silent on the subject." After a slight pause, he turns again to Sartoris, and, forcing him to meet his gaze, says haughtily,-- "May we hope you will be present at our wedding, my lord?" "I thank you, no. I fear not," returns the older man, quite as haughtily. "I hope to be many miles from here before the end of next week." Dorian smiles unpleasantly. "You will at least call upon Miss Broughton before leaving the neighborhood?" he says, raising his brows. At this Sartoris turns upon him fiercely, stung by the apparent unconcern of his manner.