through the length and breadth of the land. If you
were to die, or--or forsake me, it would break my heart. And all this
is because I love you."

"Is it?"--in a very low tone. "Does all that mean being in love?
Then"--in a still lower tone--"I know I am not one bit in love with
_you_."

"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to
pained anger by her words.

"Because I promised papa, when--when he was leaving me, that I would
marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again
lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier.
And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean
regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.

"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back
from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what
you are saying--what you are compelling me, against my will, to
understand?"

She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery,
and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers
in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third
finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet
and moving memories!

"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without
looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting
the ring round her slender finger,--"it was _more_ than fortunate that
the first rich man should be _you_."

"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort,
"Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"

"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss
Broughton, quite calmly.

"As I said before, to be candid is your _forte_," exclaims he, with
extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction
(I am not talking of myself, you know,--that is quite evident, is it
not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently--_bon parti_?"

"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she,
quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.

"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says
Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest.
You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry
that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally
possessed of filthy--if desirable--lucre!"

He turns from her, and, going to the