Neaera sobbed forth the opinion that George was her only friend.
“I shall tell him everything,” said George. “Do you authorise me to do that?”
“Oh, how miserable I am!—oh, yes, yes.”
“Then stop crying, and try to look nice.”
“Why?”
“Because I shall bring him in.”
“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.