Gerald was, of course, the subject of these strictures, and George was content not to contradict them. "He evidently," continued Neaera, "simply cannot understand your generosity. It's beyond him!" "You mustn't rate what you call my generosity too high," said George. "But what are you going to do, Mrs. Witt?" Neaera spread her hands out with a gesture of despair. "What am I to do? I am--desolate." "So am I. We must console one another." This speech was indiscreet. George recognised it, when Neaera's answering glance reached him. "That will make them talk worse than ever," she said, smiling. "You ought never to speak to me again, Mr. Neston." "Oh, we are damned beyond redemption, so we may as well enjoy ourselves." "No, you mustn't shock your friends still more." "I have no friends left to shock," replied George, bitterly. Neaera implored him not to say that, running over the names of such as might be supposed to remain faithful. George shook his head at each name: when the Pocklingtons were mentioned, his shake was big with sombre meaning. "Well, well," she said with a sigh, "and now what are you going to do?" "Oh, nothing. I think some of us are going to have a run to Brighton. I shall go, just to get out of this." "Is Brighton nice now?" "Nicer than London, anyhow." "Yes. Mr. Neston----?" "Yes, Mrs. Witt? Why don't you come too." "At any rate, you'd--you and your friends--be somebody to speak to, wouldn't you?" said Neaera, resting her chin on her hand and gazing at George. "Oh yes, you must come. We shall be very jolly." "Poor us! But perhaps it will console us to mingle our tears." "Will you come?" asked George. "I shan't tell you," she said with a laugh. "It must be purely accidental." "A fortuitous concurrence? Very well. We go to-morrow." "I don't want to know when you go." "No. But we do." Neaera laughed again, and George took his leave, better pleased with the world than when he arrived. A call on a pretty woman often has this effect; sometimes, let us add, to complete our commonplace, just the opposite. "Why shouldn't I?" he argued to himself. "I don't know why I should get all the blame for nothing. If they think it of me, I may as well do it." But when George reached his lodgings, he found on the table, side by side with Mr. Blodwell's final letter about the Brighton trip, Laura Pocklington's note. And then--away went Brighton, and Neaera Witt, and the reckless defiance of public opinion, and all the rest of it! And George swore at himself for a heartless, distrustful, worthless person, quite undeserving to receive such a letter from such a lady. And when the second letter came the next morning, he swore again, at himself for his meditated desertion, and by all his gods, that he would be worthy of such favour. "The child's a trump," he said, "a regular trump! And she shan't be worried by hearing of me hanging about in Mrs. Witt's neighbourhood."