"I don't care, you _have_ condemned him." "If you will only think, you will see--" "Don't speak to me, I _hate_ you," says Miss Blount, growling undignified because of her deep grief and agitation. "And don't think you can turn me from my purpose. I shall tell him what you think of him before this evening passes, be sure of that." "There is no need to tell him," says Portia, in so low a tone that Dulce can scarcely hear her. "He--he knows already!" "What!" cries Dulce, aghast. But her rout only lasts for a moment. "I don't care," she says, recklessly, "that is only another reason why I should warn him to beware of you!" Then, as though some cruel thought strikes her, she suddenly bursts into tears. "Were there not _others_?" she sobs, bitterly. "If a slave was indispensable to your happiness, was there not Roger, or Stephen, or Dicky Browne, or even Sir Mark, that you must needs claim _him_? He was heart-whole when you came; if not happy, he had at least conquered the first awful pain; could there be greater wickedness than to add another grief to his life? He had suffered as no man ever yet suffered, and yet you came to add another pang, and to destroy him, body and soul! When I think of it all, and the deliberate cruelty of it," cries she, with a gesture of uncontrollable passion, "if I could lay you dead at my feet this moment by a word I would do it!" "I wish you could do it," says Portia, quite calmly. The terrible grief of the poor child before her is almost more than she can bear. Her calmness that is born of despair, brings Dulce back to something that resembles quietude. "I shall go now," she says; "you have had enough of me, no doubt; but remember I shall tell Fabian all that has passed. I warn you of this, honestly." She moves towards the door. There is a moment's hesitation, and then Portia intercepts her, and placing her back against the door to bar egress, she says, in slow, determined tones: "You shall tell him nothing. You shall not leave this room until you promise to keep secret all that has passed here. Do you understand?--you are to tell him _nothing_." "Oh! yes, I shall," says Miss Blount, contemptuously, knowing herself much the stronger of the two. "And even sooner than I first intended. I shall go to meet him on his return from the wood, and tell him then." She turns back; and, crossing the room again, goes towards another door; that opening discloses a large closet beyond, in which many dresses and other articles of feminine attire are hanging, like so many Blue Beard's wives. A little window, lattice-paned, illumines this tiny chamber. Portia following her, lays her hand upon her arm. She has changed her tone completely, from command to entreaty. "_Do_ not speak to Fabian of this," she says. "Do not let him think we two have discussed the wretched subject." "I shall tell him precisely what has happened," says Dulce, unsoftened. "That you think him nothing less than a common _felon_."