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_."

"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 f