"I never heard anything so monstrous. Do you really persist in it? I don't know what to say." "Do you deny it?" "Deny it! I might as well deny--but of course I deny it. It's madness." "Then I must lay what I know before my uncle and Gerald, and leave them to act as they think best." Neaera took a step forward as George rose from his seat. "Do you mean to repeat this atrocious--this insane scandal?" "I think I must. I should be glad to think I had any alternative." Neaera raised one white hand above her head, and brought it down through the air with a passionate gesture. "I warn you not!" she cried; "I warn you not!" George bowed. "It is a lie, and--and if it were true, you could not prove it." George thought this her first false step. But there were no witnesses. "It will be war between us," she went on in growing excitement. "I will stand at nothing--nothing--to crush you; and I will do it." "You must not try to frighten me," said George. Neaera surveyed him from head to foot. Then she stretched out her white hand again, and said, "Go!" George shrugged his shoulders, took his hat, and went, feeling very much as if Neaera had detected him in theft. So great is the virtue of a good presence and dramatic instincts. Suddenly he paused; then he went back again, and knocked at the door. "Come in," cried Neaera. As he entered she made an impatient movement. She was still standing where he had left her. "Pray pardon me. I forgot to say one thing. Of course I am only interested in this--matter, as one of the family. I am not a detective. If you give up Gerald, my mouth is sealed." "I will not give up Gerald," she exclaimed passionately. "I love him. I am not an adventuress; I am rich already. I----" "Yes, you could look higher than Gerald, and avoid all this." "I don't care. I love him." George believed her. "I wish to God I could spare you----" "Spare me? I don't ask your mercy. You are a slanderer----" "I thought I would tell you," said George calmly. "Will you not go?" she cried. And her voice broke into a sob. This was worse than her tragedy airs. George fled without another word, cursing himself for a hard-hearted, self-righteous prig, and then cursing fate that laid this burden on him. What was she doing now, he wondered. Exulting in her triumph? He hoped so; for a different picture obstinately filled his mind--a beautiful woman, her face buried in her white arms, crying the brightness out of her eyes, all because George Neston had a sense of duty. Still he did not seriously waver in his determination. If Neaera had admitted the whole affair and besought his mercy, he felt that his resolution would have been sorely tried. But, as it was, he carried away the impression that he had to deal with a practised hand, and perhaps a little professional zeal mingled with his honest feeling that a woman who would lie like that was a woman who ought to be shown in her true colours.