"My dear fellow, you must remember it is apparent to everybody that _you_ don't want her," says Sir Mark, taking Stephen's part, though in his soul he is on Roger's side. "Would you act the part of the dog in the manger? You don't affect her yourself, yet nobody else must look at her. She has found out, I _suppose_, that she prefers some one else to you. Women, as a rule, will choose for themselves, and who shall blame them! When, later on, you choose for yourself too, you will be very grateful to her and Stephen for this hour. Just now self-love is disagreeing with you. If I were you I should clear out of this for a bit." "Oh? as for _that_, I'm going," says Roger; "but I'm glad I have had a chance of speaking to him before I go; he undermined me, and poisoned her mind with regard to me from first to last. I wasn't _quite_ blind, though I said nothing. He spoke evilly of me behind my back, I have no doubt, and maligned me most falsely when there was a chance; a more blackguardly transaction--" "You shall answer to me for this," says Gower, in a white rage; "you have lied in your statement from beginning to end." "No one shall answer for anything," says Sir Mark, promptly; "I won't hear of it. Are you both gentlemen! and to dream of dragging a woman's name into a scandalous quarrel of this kind? For shame! Take my advice, Roger, and go abroad, or to the--or anywhere you like for a month or two, and see what that will do for you. You know you are only trying to make a grievance out of nothing; you never _really_ cared for her, as a man should for his wife." Sir Mark's eyes sadden as he says this, and an irrepressible sigh escapes him; is he thinking of the time when he could have cared for a woman with all his heart and soul? "No, of course not; you and she and all are quite agreed about _that_," says Roger, bitterly. "My good boy, all your world knows it," says Sir Mark, persistently. "My world is wiser than even _I_ gave it credit for," says Roger, sneeringly. But there is a sob in his voice as he turns away that sends a pang through Sir Mark's heart. What has happened? Have they all been mistaken, then? Even have the principal actors in this small drama been blind until now, when the awakening has come too late. Without another word to Stephen, Sir Mark goes slowly indoors, and, passing through the hall, meets Portia coming toward him, a troubled expression in her large sad eyes. "What is it, Mark?" she says, laying her hand on his arm, "Something has happened to Dulce; she is lying on her bed, and will not speak to me or any one. Has she really quarreled finally with Roger?" "Oh, it is worse than that," says Gore, with something that is almost a groan. "It can't be true that she has thrown him over for Mr. Gower?" says Portia, recoiling. "One never knows what a woman will do," says Mark, gloomily, "I think she has." "But what is it all about? How did it begin?"