"Oh!" cried Neaera in dismay. But when George went out, she made her hair a little rougher--for so paradoxically do ladies set about the task of ordering their appearance--and anointed her eyes with the contents of a mysterious phial, produced from a recondite pocket. Then she sat up straight, and strained her ears to catch any sound from the next room, where her fate was being decided. She could distinguish which of the two men was speaking, but not the words. First Gerald, then George, then Gerald again. Next, for full five minutes, George talked in low but seemingly emphatic tones. Then came a sudden shout from Gerald. "Here!" he cried. "In your room!" They had risen, and were moving about. Neaera's heart beat, though she sat still as a statue. The door was flung open, and she rose to meet Gerald, as he entered with a rush. George followed, with a look of mingled anger and perplexity on his face. Gerald flung a piece of paper at Neaera; it was Mrs. Bort's letter, and, as it fell at her feet, she sank back again in her chair, with a bitter little cry. The worst had happened. "Thank God for an honest woman!" cried Gerald. "Gerald!" she murmured, stretching out her hands to him. "Ah, you can do that to him!" he answered, pointing to George. "I--I loved you," she said. "He'll believe you, perhaps--or help you in your lies. I've done with you." He passed his hand over his brow, and went on. "I was easy to hoodwink, wasn't I? Only a little wheedling and fondling--only a kiss or two--and a lie or two! I believed it all. And you," he added, turning on George, "you spared her, you pitied her, you sacrificed yourself. A fine sacrifice!" George put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders. "I shouldn't go on before Mrs. Witt," he remarked. "Not go on! No, no. She's so pure, so innocent, isn't she? Worth any sacrifice?" "What do you mean, Gerald?" said Neaera. "You don't know?" he asked, with a sneer. "What does a man ask for what he's done? and what will a woman give? Will give? Has given?" "Hold your tongue!" said George, laying a hand on his shoulder. Neaera sat still, gazing at her lover with open eyes: only a little shudder ran over her. "You duped me nicely between you," Gerald continued, "me and all the world. No truth in it all! A mistake!--all a mistake! He found out--his mistake!" His voice rose almost to a shriek, and ended in a bitter laugh. "You needn't be a brute," said George, coldly. Gerald looked at him, then at Neaera, and uttered another sneering laugh. George was close by him now, seeming to watch every motion of his lips. Neaera rose from her chair, and flung herself at the feet of the angry man. "Ah, Gerald, my love, have pity!" she wailed. "Pity!" he echoed, drawing back, so that she fell on her face before him. "Pity! I might pity a thief, I might pity a liar, I have no pity for a----"