George was not more sensitive than other men, but the annoyance was extreme. The whole world seemed full of people reading the _Bull's-eye_, some with grave reprobation, some with offensive chucklings. But if the _Bull's-eye_ would not leave him alone, a large number of people did. He was not exactly cut; but his invitations diminished, the greetings he received grew less cordial than of yore: he was not turned out of the houses he went to, but he was not much pressed to come again. He was made to feel that right-minded and reasonable people--a term everybody uses to describe themselves--were against him, and that, if he wished to re-enter the good graces of society, he must do so by the strait and narrow gate of penitence and apology. "I shall have to do it," he said to himself, as he sat moodily in his chambers. "They're all at me--uncle Roger, Tommy Myles, Isabel--all of them. I'm shot if I ever interfere with anybody's marriage again." The defection of Isabel rankled in his mind worst of all. That she, of all people, should turn against him, and, as a last insult, send him upbraiding messages through Tommy Myles! This she had done, and George was full of wrath. "A note for you, sir," said Timms, entering in his usual silent manner. Timms had no views on the controversy, being one of those rare people who mind their own business; and George had fallen so low as to be almost grateful for the colourless impartiality with which he bore himself towards the quarrel between his masters. George took the note. "Mr. Gerald been here, Timms?" "He looked in for letters, sir; but went away directly on hearing you were here." Timms stated this fact as if it were in the ordinary way of friendly intercourse, and withdrew. "Well, I am----!" exclaimed George, and paused. The note was addressed in the handwriting he now knew very well, the handwriting of the Bournemouth character. "DEAR MR. NESTON, "I shall be alone at five o'clock to-day. Will you come and see me? "Yours sincerely, "NEAERA WITT." "You must do as a lady asks you," said George, "even if she does steal shoes, and you have mentioned it. Here goes! What's she up to now, I wonder?" Neaera, arrayed in the elaborate carelessness of a tea-gown, received him, not in the drawing-room, but in her own snuggery. Tea was on the table; there was a bright little fire, and a somnolent old cat snoozed on the hearth-rug. The whole air was redolent of what advertisements called a "refined home," and Neaera's manner indicated an almost pathetic desire to be friendly, checked only by the self-respecting fear of a rude rebuff to her advances. "It is really kind of you to come," she said, "to consent to a parley." "The beaten side always consents to a parley," answered George, taking the seat she indicated. She was half sitting, half lying on a sofa when he came in, and resumed her position after greeting him.