She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories! "It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger,--"it was _more_ than fortunate that the first rich man should be _you_." "Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?" "I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly. "As I said before, to be candid is your _forte_," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know,--that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently--_bon parti_?" "I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question. "I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy--if desirable--lucre!" He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon the dying daylight, and the gardens stretched beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, higher thoughts. He is unutterably wretched. All through his short courtship he had entertained doubts of her affection; but now, to have her so openly, so carelessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater than that of most, forgiveness now seems difficult. Yet can he resign her? She has so woven herself into his very heart-strings--this cold, cruel, lovely child--that he cannot tear her out without a still further surrender of himself to death. To live without her--to get through endless days and interminable nights without hope of seeing her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will bring him sure tidings of her--seems impossible. He sighs; and then, even as he sighs, five slim cold little fingers steal within his. "I have made you angry," says the plaintive voice, full of contrition. A shapely yellow head pushes itself under one of his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks up into his. How can any one be angry with a face like that?