Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian's footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lo! from out some thicket, the nightingale,-- "Who is silent all day long; But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs Until they waken"-- bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous harmony with the last, until one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness. Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts, still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the passionate burst of melody, he draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the dining-room there, where he finds Lord Sartoris still over his wine. He is sitting at the head of the long table, looking strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that has elapsed since last he left Pullingham. "So you are home again, Arthur," says Dorian, coldly, but with apparent composure. They have not been face to face since that last meeting, when bitter words, and still more bitter looks, had passed between them. Now, letting the quickly spoken sentence take the place of a more active greeting, they nod coolly to each other, and carefully refuse to let their hands touch. "Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I returned two days ago. Business recalled me; otherwise I was sufficiently comfortable where I was to make me wish to remain there." "And Constance, is she quite well?" "Quite well, thank you. Your other cousins desired to be remembered to you. So did she, of course." A pause, prolonged and undesirable. "You will take some claret?" says Sartoris, at last, pushing the bottle towards him. "No, thank you; I have only just dined. I came up to-night to tell you what I dare say by this you have heard from somebody else; I am going to be married on the 9th of next month." Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to confront him. "I had not heard it," he says, with amazement. "To be married! This is very sudden." Then, changing his tone, "I am glad," he says, slowly, and with an unmistakable sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you to set that girl right in the eyes of the world. As a man of honor there was no other course left open to you." "To whom are you alluding?" asks Branscombe, growing pale with anger, an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes. "I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy, reparation to Ruth Annersley." With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that is trembling on his lips. "You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that girl's disappearance?"