"Gerald," said Lord Tottlebury, "this is no use." There was a feeling that George was behaving very badly. Everybody thought so, and said so; and all except Neaera either exhorted or besought him to confess himself the victim of an absurd mistake. As the matter had become public, nothing less could be accepted. George wavered. "I will let you know to-morrow," he said. "Meanwhile let me return this document to Mrs. Witt." He took out Mrs. Horne's letter and laid it on the table. "I have ventured to take a copy," he said. "As the original is valuable, I thought I had better give it back." "Thank you," said Neaera, and moved forward to take it. Gerald hastened to fetch it for her. As he took it up, his eye fell on the writing, for George had laid it open on the table. "Why, Neaera," said he, "it's in your handwriting!" George started, and he thought he saw Neaera start just perceptibly. "Of course," she said. "That's only a copy." "My dear, you never told me so," said Lord Tottlebury; "and I have never seen your handwriting." "Gerald and Maud have." "But they never saw this." "It was stupid of me," said Neaera, penitently; "but I never thought of there being any mistake. What difference does it make?" George's heart was hardened. He was sure she had, if not tried to pass off the copy as an original from the first, at any rate taken advantage of the error. "Have you the original?" he asked. "No," said Neaera. "I sent it to somebody ever so long ago, and never got it back." "When did you make this copy?" "When I sent away the original." "To whom?" began George again. "I won't have it," cried Gerald. "You shan't cross-examine her with your infernal insinuations. Do you mean that she forged this?" George grew stubborn. "I should like to see the original," he said. "Then you can't," retorted Gerald, angrily. George shrugged his shoulders, turned, and left the room. And they all comforted and cosseted Neaera, and abused George, and made up their minds to let the world know how badly he was behaving. "It's our duty to society," said Lord Tottlebury. CHAPTER VII. AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN. "I should eat humble-pie, George," said Mr. Blodwell, tapping his eye-glasses against his front teeth. "She's one too many for you." "Do you think I'm wrong?" "On the whole, I incline to think you're right. But I should eat humble-pie if I were you, all the same." The suggested diet is palatable to nobody, and the power of consuming it without contortion is rightly put high in the list of virtues, if virtue be proportionate to difficulty. To a man of George Neston's temperament penance was hard, even when enforced by the consciousness of sin; to bend the knees in abasement, when the soul was erect in self-approval, came nigh impossibility.