Dorian's back is turned to her. His coat is off, and he is brushing his hair before a glass in the furious fashion men, as a rule, affect. As she enters, he turns, and putting down the brushes, regards her with undisguised surprise. Plainly, he has not expected her. "How d'ye do?" he says, presently. It is perfectly absurd; yet neither of them laughs. It is the most ridiculous greeting he could possibly have made her, considering all things; yet no sense of ridicule touches them. They are too near to tragedy to harbor a thought of comedy. "I did not expect you until five," says Georgie, in a constrained tone. "If I had known, I should have been ready to receive you." "Pray do not apologize," he says, coldly. "It is very good of you to come here now. It is more than I expected." "I came," says Georgie, with an effort, "because I have something to tell you, that should be told without delay." "What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?" "Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him; though, of course, it must touch him very nearly." "You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit down while you tell me your news." "No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly over the other, and leans against the wall; she cannot, try as she will, remove her eyes from his face. "What I want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth Annersley!" "Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?" "With--your brother!" Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there so that his face cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond measure. So his old suspicions have proved true, after all, and Horace's protestations were as basest lies. He feels sick at heart for his brother's honor,--that miserable remnant of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced to rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again. "Who found her there?" he asks, huskily. "Clarissa." "Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her the discoverer?" "Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of pure love for him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth Annersley!" "Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,--so trusting." Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon her?--she, who has so failed in faith and love? "I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently, in an absent, weary way. "Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She forces herself to come nearer to him, and now stands before him like a small pale culprit, unable to lift her eyes to his. "I want to tell you how deeply I regret the injustice, the--" "No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be said about that. It would be worse than useless. Why waste words over what can never be undone?" Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker, and her lips are trembling.