"You did not ask for mercy," said George. "No, I didn't. I know what you mean--I lied." "Yes, you lied, if you choose that word. You garbled documents, and, when the truth was told, you called it slander." Neaera had sunk back in her seat again. "Yes," she moaned. "I couldn't let it all go--I couldn't!" "You yourself have made pity impossible." "Oh no, not impossible! I loved him so, and he--he was so trustful." "The more reason for not deceiving him," said George, grimly. "What is it, after all?" she exclaimed, changing her tone. "What is it, I say?" "Well, if you ask me, Mrs. Witt, it's an awkward record." "An awkward record! Yes, but for a man in love?" "That's Gerald's look-out. He can do as he pleases." "What, after you have put me to open shame? And for what? Because I loved my father most, and loved my--the man who loved me--most!" George shook his head. "If you were in love--in love, I say, with a girl--yes, if you were in love with me, would this thing stop you?" And she stood before him proudly and scornfully. George looked at her. "I don't think it would," he said. "Then," she asked, advancing a step, and stretching out her clasped hands, "why ask more for another than for yourself?" "Gerald will be the head of the family, to begin with----" "The family?" "Certainly; the Neston family." "Who are they? Are they famous? I never heard of them till the other day." "I daresay not; we moved in rather different circles." "Do you take pleasure in being brutal?" "I take pleasure in nothing connected with this confounded affair," said George, impatiently. "Then why not drop it?" George shook his head. "Too late," he said. "It's mere selfishness. You are only thinking of what people will say of you." "I have a right to consider that." "It's mean--mean and heartless!" George rose. "Really, it's no use going on with this," said he. And, making a slight bow, he turned towards the door. "I didn't mean it--I didn't mean it," cried Neaera. "But I am out of my mind. Ah, have pity on me!" And she flung herself on the floor, right in his path. George felt very absurd. He stood, his hat in one hand, his stick and gloves in the other, while Neaera clasped his legs below the knee, and, he feared, was about to bedew his boots with her tears. "This is tragedy, I suppose," he thought. "How the devil am I to get away?" "I have never had a chance," Neaera went on, "never. Ah, it is hard! And when at last----" Her voice choked, and George, to his horror, heard her sob. He nervously shifted his feet about, as well as Neaera's eager clutches would allow him. How he wished he had not come! "I cannot bear it!" she cried. "They will all write about me, and jeer at me; and Gerald will cast me off. Where shall I hide?--where shall I hide? What was it to you?"