"No, not angry," he says. And indeed the anger has gone from his face,--her very touch has banished it,--and only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps for the first time, at this moment she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Her eyes fill with tears. "I think--it will be better for you--to--give me up," she says, in a down-hearted way, lowering her lids over her tell-tale orbs, that are like the summer sea now that they shine through their unwonted moisture "Tears are trembling in her blue eyes, Like drops that linger on the violet," and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast. "Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, "when I have set my whole heart upon you? It is too late to suggest such a course. That you do not love me is my misfortune, not your fault. Surely it is misery enough to know that,--to feel that I am nothing to you,--without telling me that you wish so soon to be released from your promise?" "I don't wish it," she says, earnestly, shaking her head. "No, indeed! It was only for your sake I spoke. Perhaps by and by you will regret having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's. And there are a great many things I would not do for you. And if _you_ were to die----" "There! that will do," he says, with sudden passion. "Do you know how you hurt, I wonder? Are you utterly heartless?" Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his embrace,--which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,--she moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft color, and-- "With that, the water in her eie Arose, that she ne might it stoppe; And, as men sene the dew be droppe The leves and the floures eke, Right so upon her white cheke The wofull salt teres felle." "I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am _not_ heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone. "Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so. Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man." "But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must always remember that. There was one; and"--she is plainly in the mood for confessions--"I shall never love you or any one as I loved him." "What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?" "I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago--at least, I----"