"Chance. He was ill, and she went to see him, out of pure love for him. She was rewarded by a sight of Ruth Annersley!"
"Poor girl!" says Branscombe, sadly. "So true,—so trusting."
Georgie draws her breath quickly. Are not his words a reflection upon her?—she, who has so failed in faith and love?
"I suppose that is all you have to tell me," says Dorian, presently, in an absent, weary way.
"Not quite all," she says, with a trembling voice. She forces herself to come nearer to him, and now stands before him like a small pale culprit, unable to lift her eyes to his. "I want to tell you how deeply I regret the injustice, the—"
"No, no," interrupts he, impatiently. "Let nothing be said about that. It would be worse than useless. Why waste words over what can never be undone?"
Still she perseveres bravely, although her breath is coming quicker, and her lips are trembling.
"I must tell you how sorry I am," she says, with a suppressed sob. "I want to ask you, if possible, to forg——"
"Believe me, it will be better to leave all this unsaid," he interrupts her, gravely.
"Then you do not care to hear how I have regretted the wrong I did you, and——?"