"What is it?" he asks, quickly. "Is my uncle well?"
"Quite well. I saw him yesterday. It has nothing to do with him; though, of course, it must touch him very nearly."
"You will be tired," he says, with grave but distant politeness. "Sit down while you tell me your news."
"No; I prefer standing." She clasps one hand tightly over the other, and leans against the wall; she cannot, try as she will, remove her eyes from his face. "What I want to say is this: I have heard of Ruth Annersley!"
"Have you?" with an ominous calm in look and tone. "Where is she?"
"With—your brother!"
Dorian walks abruptly to the window, and stands there so that his face cannot be seen. He is distressed beyond measure. So his old suspicions have proved true, after all, and Horace's protestations were as basest lies. He feels sick at heart for his brother's honor,—that miserable remnant of a once fair thing, that costly garment, now reduced to rags. After a while he forces himself to speak again.
"Who found her there?" he asks, huskily.
"Clarissa."
"Clarissa?" He is now thoroughly shocked. "What cruel fate made her the discoverer?"