Something in the pleading tones stirred his blood curiously.
"Do you know," he cried, addressing himself to Gertrude, who was deliberately drawing the rings from her sister's passive hands, "Do you know what a night it is? That if you take her away you will kill her? Great God, you paragon of virtue, don't you see how ill she is?"
She swept her glance over him in icy disdain; then going up to the mantelpiece, laid the rings on the shelf.
"I swear to you," he cried, "that I will leave the house this hour, this minute. That I will never return to it; that I will never see her again—Phyllis!"
At the last word, his voice had dropped to a low and passionate key; he stretched out his arms, but Gertrude coming between them put her strong desperate grasp about Phyllis, who swayed forward with closed eyes. Darrell retreated with a muffled exclamation of grief and rage and baffled purpose, and Gertrude half led, half carried her sister from the room, the hateful satin garment trailing noisily behind them from beneath the black cloak.
A tall figure came forward from the doorway; the door was standing open; and the white whirlpool was visible against the darkness outside.
"She has fainted," said Gertrude, in a low voice.
Lord Watergate lifted her gently in his arms. At the same moment Darrell emerged from the studio, then remained rooted to the spot, dismayed and sullen, at the sight of his friend.
"You are a scoundrel, Darrell," said Lord Watergate, in very clear, deliberate tones; then, his burden in his arms, he stepped out into the darkness, Gertrude closing the door behind them.