"So I was," he says; "but I came home yesterday." Then, "And you are Dorian's wife?" Her brows grow clouded. "Yes," she says, and no more, and, turning aside, pulls to pieces the flowering grasses that grow on her right hand. "I suppose I am unwelcome in your sight," says the old man, noting her reserve. "Yet if, at the time of your marriage, I held aloof, it was not because you were the bride." "Did you hold aloof?" says Georgie, with wondering eyes. "Did our marriage displease you? I never knew: Dorian never told me." Then, with sudden unexpected bitterness, "Half measures are of no use. Why did you not forbid the wedding altogether? That would have been the wisest and kindest thing, both for him and me." "I don't think I quite follow you," says Lord Sartoris, in a troubled tone. "Am I to understand you already regret your marriage? Do not tell me that." "Why should I not?" says Georgie, defiantly. His tone has angered her, though why, she would have found a difficulty in explaining. "You are his uncle," she says, with some warmth: "why should you not know? Why am I always to pretend happiness that I never feel?" "Do you know what your words convey?" says Sartoris, more shocked than he can express. "I think I do," says the girl, half passionately; and then she turns aside, and moves as though she would leave him. "This is terrible," says Sartoris, in a low voice full of pain. "And yet I cannot believe he is unkind to you." "Unkind? No," with a little scornful smile: "I hear no harsh words, my lightest wish is law; yet the veriest beggar that crawls the road is happier than I am." "It seems impossible," says Sartoris, quietly, looking intently at her flower-like face and lovely wistful eyes,--"seeing you, it seems impossible to me that he can do anything but love you." "Do not profane the words," she says, quickly. Then she pauses, as though afraid to continue, and presently says, in a broken voice, "Am I--the only woman he has--loved?" Something in the suppressed passion of her tone tells Lord Sartoris that she too is in possession of the secret that for months has embittered his life. This discovery is horrible to him. "Who has been cruel enough to make you wise on that subject?" he says, impulsively, and therefore unwisely. Georgie turns upon him eyes brilliant with despair and grief. "So"--she says, vehemently--"it is the world's talk. You know it: it is, indeed, common property, this disgraceful story." Something within her chokes her words; she can say no more. Passion overcomes her, and want of hope, and grief too deep for expression. The gentle wells that nature supplies are dead within her; her eyes, hot and burning, conceal no water wherewith to cool the fever that consumes them. "You are a stranger to me," she says, presently. "Yet to you I have laid bare my thoughts. You think, perhaps, I am one to parade my griefs, but it is not so; I would have you----"