me: why,
then, should you have power to control my actions? And I will not live
at Hythe, and I will not live at all in Pullingham unless I live
here."

"Don't be obstinate, Dorian," says Sir James, imploringly. "Give in to
her: it will be more manly. Don't you see she has conceived an
affection for the place by this time, and can't bear to see it pass
into strange hands? In the name of common sense, accept this chance of
rescue, and put an end to a most unhappy business."

Dorian leans his arms upon the mantel-piece, and his head upon his
arms. Shall he, or shall he not, consent to this plan? Is he really
behaving, as Scrope has just said, in an unmanly manner?

A lurid flame from the fire lights up the room, and falls warmly upon
Georgie's anxious face and clasped hands and sombre clinging gown;
upon Dorian's bowed head and motionless figure, and upon Sir James,
standing tall and silent within the shadow that covers the corner
where he is. All is sad, and drear, and almost tragic!

Georgie, with both hands pressed against her bosom, waits breathlessly
for Dorian's answer. At last it comes. Lifting his head, he says, in a
dull tone that is more depressing than louder grief,--

"I consent. But I cannot live here just yet. I shall go away for a
time. I beg you both to understand that I do this thing against my
will for my wife's sake,--not for my own. Death itself could not be
more bitter to me than life has been of late." For the last time he
turns and looks at Georgie. "You know who has embittered it," he says.
And then, "Go: I wish to be alone!"

Scrope, taking Mrs. Branscombe's cold hand in his, leads her from the
room. When outside, she presses her fingers on his in a grateful
fashion, and, whispering something to him in a broken voice,--which he
fails to hear,--she goes heavily up the staircase to her own room.

When inside, she closes the door, and locks it, and, going as if with
a purpose to a drawer in a cabinet, draws from it a velvet frame.
Opening it, she gazes long and earnestly upon the face it contains: it
is Dorian's.

It is a charming, lovable face, with its smiling lips and its large
blue honest eyes. Distrustfully she gazes at it, as if seeking to
discover some trace of duplicity in the clear open features. Then
slowly she takes the photograph from the frame, and with a scissors
cuts out the head, and, lifting the glass from a dull gold locket upon
the table near her, carefully places the pic