"Oh! do not put it into language," says Portia, sharp pain in her voice; she puts up her hands as she speaks, as, though to ward off a blow. "And I implore you, as you _love_ him, to let things rest as they are." "And so to give you scope to practise your wiles without hindrance," says Dulce, with a short, unlovely laugh. "No, I shall try my very utmost to lower you in his esteem, and so kill his fatal infatuation for you." "You will fail," says Portia, hopelessly. "You will only succeed in hurting him." "How sure you are of your power," says Dulce, angrily. "Yet I will not be disheartened. I will save him if I can." "You are quite determined?" "Quite." "You will go now to meet him, _now_ when your anger is hot, and say to him what will surely grieve or wound him?" "Let us talk sense," says Dulce, impatiently. "I shall simply warn him to have nothing more to do with a woman who looks upon him with scorn and contempt." As she speaks she enters the closet that is nothing more than a big wardrobe, and, as she does so, Portia, quick as thought follows her, and, closing the door behind her, turns the key in the lock. "You shall stay there until you promise me to tell nothing of this hour's conversation to Fabian," she says, with determination. "Then I shall probably stay here forever," replies Dulce from within, with equal determination. Portia going over to the fire seats herself by it. Dulce going to the latticed window inside seats herself by _it_. An hour goes by. The little clock up over the mantelpiece chimes five. A gun is fired off in the growing dark outside. There is a sound as of many voices in the hall far down below. A laugh that belongs to Dicky Browne floats upwards, and makes itself heard in the curious stillness of the room above where the jailer sits guarding her prisoner. Then Portia, rising, goes to the door of the condemned cell, and speaks as follows: "Dulce." There is no answer. "Dulce; you are unwise not to answer me." Still no answer; whereupon Portia, going back to the fire, lets another half hour pass in silence. Then she says, "Dulce!" again, and again receives no reply. Time flies!--and now at last the dressing bell rings loud and clear through the house, warning the inmates that the best time in the day draws on apace. "Dulce," says Portia, in despair, rising for the third time. To tell the truth, she is growing a little frightened at the persistent silence, and begins to wonder nervously if Dulce could get smothered in the small room, because of all the clothes that surround her. "Dulce! _will_ you promise?" she says. And now, to her relief, even though the words that come are unfavorable, Dulce answers.