g and the
colouring in that dimly lit drawing-room were all that an artist could
desire, and the facial expressions bordered upon the tragic. Of all
men in the world, his brother was the last whom of his own choosing
Paul would have wished to see.

There was a brief silence. Arthur, breathless through his hasty
entrance, could only stand there upon the threshold, his face white to
the lips, and his eyes flashing with passionate anger and dismay.
To him the situation was more than painful; it was horrible. To have
believed ill of Paul from hearsay would have been impossible; his
confidence in his elder brother had been unbounded. He had always
looked up to him as the mirror of everything that was honorable and
chivalrous. Even now, perhaps there might be some explanation--some
partial explanation, at any rate. Paul was standing back amongst the
shadows, and his face was only barely visible. Doubtless it was
only surprise which held him silent. In a moment he would speak,
and explain everything. It was this thought which loosened Arthur's
tongue.

"Paul," he cried, and stepping forward into the room, "and Adrea! You
here, and together! Tell me what it means! I have a right to know. I
will know."

He had determined to be cool, to bear himself like a man, but their
silence maddened him. Adrea, it is true, showed no signs of guilt or
confusion in her cold, questioning face. But the deceit, if deceit
there had been, was not hers. It was Paul who was responsible to him,
and it was Paul who should have spoken--Paul, who stood there with a
hidden face, a silent, immovable figure.

"Are you stricken dumb?" he cried angrily. "You can see who I am,
can't you, Paul? Speak to me! Tell me whether there is any truth
in these stories which are flying about the county, with no one to
contradict them."

What might have been the tragedy of the situation vanished for Paul at
the sound of his brother's words. After all, it was not the just anger
of a deceived man with which he was confronted, but the empty scream
of a boy's passion. Arthur's infatuation had but skimmed the surface
of his light nature. He was pricked, not wounded. Yet, though in a
sense this realization brought its relief, Paul felt humbled into the
dust. He was actually conscious of his own humiliation. So far as
a nature such as his could be conventional, he had become so in
deference to the opinion of those who looked up to him as the head of
a great house, and of