Passionate sobs rise in her throat, and almost overcome her. An angry feeling of rebellion, a vehement protest against this deed that has been done, shakes her slight frame. It cannot be true; it shall not; and yet--and yet--why has this evil fallen upon her of all others? Has her life been such a happy one that Fate must needs begrudge her one glimpse of light and gladness? Two large tears gather in her eyes, and almost unconsciously roll down her cheeks that are deadly white. Sinking into a chair, as though exhausted, she leans back among its cushions, letting her hands fall together and lie idly in her lap. Motionless she sits, with eyes fixed as if riveted to earth, while tears insensibly steal down her pensive cheeks, which look like weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair. For fully half an hour she so rests, scarce moving, hardly seeming to breathe. Then she rouses herself, and, going over to a table, bathes her face with eau-de-Cologne. This calms her in a degree, and stills the outward expression of her suffering, but in her heart there rages a fire that no waters can quench. Putting her hat on once again, she goes down-stairs, feeling eager for a touch of the cool evening air. The hot sun is fading, dying; a breeze from the distant sea is creeping stealthily up to the land. At the foot of the staircase she encounters Dorian coming towards her from the library. "I have been hunting the place for you," he says, gayly. "Where on earth have you been hiding? Visions of ghastly deaths rose before me, and I was just about to have the lake dragged and the shrubberies swept. Martin is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our feelings a little. Why, where are you off to now?"--for the first time noticing her hat. "Out," returns she, coldly, looking straight over his head: she is standing on the third step of the stairs, while he is in the hall below. "I feel stifled in this house." Her tone is distinctly strange, her manner most unusual. Fearing she is really ill, he goes up to her and lays his hand upon her arm. "Anything the matter, darling? How white you look," he begins, tenderly; but she interrupts him. "I am quite well," she says, hardly, shrinking away from his touch as though it is hateful to her. "I am going out because I wish to be alone." She sweeps past him through the old hall and out into the darkening sunlight, without a backward glance or another word. Amazed, puzzled, Branscombe stands gazing after her until the last fold of her dress has disappeared, the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone steps beyond; then he turns aside, and, feeling, if possible, more astonished than hurt, goes back to the library.