ish and unselfish, a pang at
once generous and vicious. Perhaps at the bottom of his irritation lay
the feeling that if she was to be any man's prey she might be his. But
on the whole his feelings were surprisingly honest; they had their root
in a better nature, that, deep sunk under the surface of breeding and
habit, had been wholesomely stirred by the events of the last few days.

Still, the good and the evil in the man were so far in conflict that,
had he been asked as he walked to Magdalen what he proposed to do should
he get speech with the girl, it is probable he would not have known what
to answer. Courtesy, nay, decency required that he should, inquire after
his antagonist. If he saw the girl--and he had a sneaking desire to see
her--well. If he did not see her--still well; there was an end of a
foolish imbroglio, which had occupied him too long already. In an hour
he could be in his post-chaise, and a mile out of town.

As it chanced, the surgeons in attendance on Dunborough had enjoined
quiet, and forbidden visitors. The staircase on which the rooms lay--a
bare, dusty, unfurnished place--was deserted; and the girl herself
opened the door to him, her finger on her lips. He looked for a blush
and a glance of meaning, a little play of conscious eyes and hands, a
something of remembrance and coquetry; and had his hat ready in his hand
and a smile on his lips. But she had neither smile nor blush for him; on
the contrary, when the dim light that entered the dingy staircase
disclosed who awaited her, she drew back a pace with a look of dislike
and embarrassment.

'My good girl,' he said, speaking on the spur of the moment--for the
reception took him aback--'what is it? What is the matter?'

She did not answer, but looked at him with solemn eyes, condemning him.

Even so Sir George was not blind to the whiteness of her throat, to the
heavy coils of her dark hair, and the smooth beauty of her brow. And
suddenly he thought he understood; and a chill ran through him. 'My
G--d!' he said, startled; 'he is not dead?'

She closed the door behind her, and stood, her hand on the latch. 'No,
he is not dead,' she said stiffly, voice and look alike repellent. 'But
he has not you to thank for that.'

'Eh?'

'How can you come here with that face,' she continued with sudden
passion--and he began to find her eyes intolerable--'and ask for him?
You who--fie, sir! Go home! Go home and thank God that you have not his
blood upon