" persists Dorian. "I fear,
wherever she is, she must be miserable."

Georgie raises her great violet eyes to his, that are now dark and
deep with passionate anger and contempt.

"She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a
low, quick tone.

"No, I suppose not. But what an unsympathetic tone you use! Surely you
can feel for her?"

"Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compassion for her as I
have."

"That is putting it rather strongly, is it not? You scarcely know her;
hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa Peyton, for instance, must think
more pitifully of her than you can."

"I hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate any one in
the way I do her."

"You speak very bitterly."

"Do I? I think very bitterly."

"What do you mean?" demands he, suddenly, straightening himself and
drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. His tone is almost
stern.

"Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this
conversation."

"But I think there is. Of late, your manner towards me has been more
than strange. If you complain of anything, let me know what it is, and
it shall be rectified. At the present moment, I confess, I fail to
understand you. You speak in the most absurdly romantic way about Ruth
Annersley (whom you hardly knew), as though there existed some special
reason why you, above all women, should pity her."

"I do pity her from my heart; and there is a special reason: she has
been deceived, and so have I."

"By whom?"

"I wish you would discontinue the subject, Dorian: it is a very
painful one to me, if--if not to you." Then she moves back a little,
and, laying her hand upon her chest, as though a heavy weight, not to
be lifted, is lying there, she says, slowly, "You compel me to say
what I would willingly leave unsaid. When I married you, I did not
understand your character; had I done so----"

"You would not have married me? You regret your marriage?" He is very
pale now, and something that is surely anguish gleams in his dark
eyes. Perhaps had she seen his expression her answer would have been
different, or, at least, more merciful.

"I do," she says, faintly.

"Why?" All heart seems gone from his voice. He is gazing mournfully
upon the girlish figure of his wife as she stands at some little
distance from him. "Have I been such a bad husband to you, Georgie?"
he says, brokenly.

"No, no. But it is possible to be cruel in more ways than one."