“O George!” cried Nora, horrified. “It’s a fact, my dear. I am afraid you’ll have to give me up. I wish I had never seen you!” “At all events, we can write to each other.” “What’s writing? I don’t know how to write! I will, though! I suppose he will open my letters. So much the worse for him!” Nora, as she wound her wool, mused intently. “I can’t believe he really grudges me our friendship. It must be something else.” Fenton, with a clench of his fist, arrested suddenly the outflow of the skein from his hand. “It is something else,” he said. “It’s our possible—more than friendship!” And he grasped her two hands in his own. “Nora, choose! Between me and him!” She stared a moment; then her eyes filled with tears. “O George,” she cried, “you make me very unhappy.” She must certainly tell him to go; and yet that very movement of his which had made it doubly needful made it doubly hard. “I will talk to Roger,” she said. “No one should be condemned unheard. We may all misunderstand each other.” Fenton, half an hour later, having, as he said, letters to write, went up to his own room; shortly after which, Roger returned to the library. Half an hour’s communion with the starlight and the ringing crickets had drawn the sting from his irritation. There came to him, too, a mortifying sense of his guest having outdone him in civility. This would never do. He took refuge in imperturbable good-humor, and entered the room in high indifference. But even before he had spoken, something in Nora’s face caused this wholesome dose of resignation to stick in his throat. “Your cousin is gone?” he said. “To his own room. He has some letters to write.” “Shall I hold your wools?” Roger asked, after a pause. “Thank you. They are all wound.” “For whom are your slippers?” He knew, of course; but the question came. “For George. Did I not tell you? Do you think them pretty?” And she held up her work. “Prettier than he deserves.” Nora gave him a rapid glance and miscounted her stitch. “You don’t like poor George,” she said. “No. Since you ask me, I don’t like poor George.” Nora was silent. At last: “Well!” she said, “you’ve not the same reasons as I have.” “So I am bound to believe! You must have excellent reasons.” “Excellent. He is my own, you know.” “Your own—? Ah!” And he gave a little laugh. “My own cousin,” said Nora. “Your own grandfather!” cried Roger. She stopped her work. “What do you mean?” she asked gravely. Roger began to blush a little. “I mean—I mean—that I don’t believe in your cousin. He doesn’t satisfy me. I don’t like him. He contradicts himself, his story doesn’t hang together. I have nothing but his word. I am not bound to take it.” “Roger, Roger,” said Nora, with great softness, “do you mean that he is an impostor?” “The word is your own. He’s not an honest man.”