"Consent!" says Dorian, bitterly. "That is not the word. She will be glad, at this chance that has arisen to put space between us. I believe from my heart that----" "What is it you believe?" says a plaintive voice, breaking in upon Dorian's speech with curious energy. The door leading into the garden is wide open: and now the curtain is thrust aside, and a fragile figure, gowned in some black filmy stuff, stands before them. Both men start as she advances in the uncertain light. Her face is deadly pale; her eyes are large, and almost black, as she turns them questioningly upon Sir James Scrope. It is impossible for either man to know what she may, or may not, have heard. "I was in the garden," she says, in an agitated tone, "and I heard voices; and something about money; and Dorian's going away: and----" (she puts her hand up to her throat) "and about ruin. I could not understand: but you will tell me. You must." "Tell her, Dorian," says Sir James. But Dorian looks doggedly away from her, through the open window, into the darkening garden beyond. "Tell me, Dorian," she says, nervously, going up to him, and laying a small white trembling hand upon his arm. "There is no reason why you should be distressed," says Branscombe, very coldly, lifting her hand from his arm, as though her very touch is displeasing to him. "You are quite safe. Sawyer's mismanagement of the estate has brought me to the verge of ruin; but Lord Sartoris has taken care that you will not suffer." She is trembling violently. "And you?" she says. "I shall go abroad until things look brighter." Then he turns to her for the first time, and, taking both her hands, presses them passionately. "I can hardly expect forgiveness from you," he says: "you had, at least, a right to expect position when you made your unhappy marriage, and now you have nothing." I think she hardly hears this cruel speech. Her thoughts still cling to the word that has gone before. "Abroad?" she says, with quivering lips. "Only for a time," says Sir James, taking pity upon her evident distress. "Does he owe a great deal?" asks she, feverishly. "Is it a very large sum? Tell me how much it is." Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, while Dorian maintains a determined silence. "Fifteen thousand pounds, if procured at once, would tide him over his difficulties," says Sir James, who does her the justice to divine her thoughts correctly. "Time is all he requires." "I have twenty thousand pounds," says Georgie, eagerly. "Lord Sartoris says I may do what I like with it. Dorian,"--going up to him again,--"take it,--do, _do_. You will make me happier than I have been for a long time if you will accept it." A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half surprise, half contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is some genuine gladness in it.