From this hour begins the settled coldness between Dorian and his wife that is afterwards to bear such bitter fruit. She assigns no actual reason for her changed demeanor; and Dorian, at first, is too proud to demand an explanation,--though perhaps never yet has he loved her so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness are coldly and obstinately rejected. Not until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon the middle of August, does it dawn upon him why Georgie has been so different of late. Sir James Scrope is dining with them, and, shortly after the servants have withdrawn, he makes some casual mention of Ruth Annersley's name. No notice is taken of it at the time, the conversation changes almost directly into a fresh channel, but Dorian, happening to glance across the table at his wife, sees that she has grown absolutely livid, and really, for the instant, fears she is going to faint. Only for an instant! Then she recovers herself, and makes some careless remark, and is quite her usual self again. But he cannot forget that sudden pallor, and like a flash the truth comes to him, and he knows he is foul and despicable in the eyes of the only woman he loves. When Sir James has gone, he comes over to her, and, leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece, stands in such a position as enables him to command a full view of her face. "Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth," he says, purposely introducing the subject again. "It certainly is remarkable that no tidings of her have ever since reached Pullingham." Georgie makes no reply. The nights have already grown chilly and there is a fire in the grate, before which she is standing warming her hands. One foot,--a very lovely little foot,--clad in a black shoe relieved by large silver buckles, is resting on the fender, and on this her eyes are riveted, as though lost in admiration of its beauty, though in truth she sees it not at all. "I can hardly understand her silence," persists Dorian. "I fear, wherever she is, she must be miserable." Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now dark and deep with passionate anger and contempt. "She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a low, quick tone. "No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone you use! Surely you can feel for her?" "Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compassion for her as I have." "That is putting it rather strongly, is it not? You scarcely know her; hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa Peyton, for instance, must think more pitifully of her than you can." "I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate any one in the way I do her." "You speak very bitterly." "Do I? I think very bitterly." "What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening himself and drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. His tone is almost stern. "Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this conversation."