"Oh, no! Please do not come, Mr. Branscombe," entreats she, so earnestly that he feels she has a meaning in her words. "I have the key of the small gate, and can run home in five minutes once I pass that."
"Then at least I shall see you safely as far as the gate," says Branscombe, who is tender and gentle in his manner to all women.
Silently they walk through the damp night grass, neither speaking, until, coming to a curve in the way, she breaks silence.
"How beautiful Miss Peyton looks to-night," she says, in a tone impossible to translate.
"Very," says Dorian, unkindly, yet with very kindly intent. "But then she is always one of the most beautiful women I know."
"Is she—very much admired?"—this rather timidly.
"One can understand that at once," says Dorian, quietly. "Both her face and figure are perfect." As he says this, quite calmly, his heart bleeds for the girl beside him.
"Who has she been dancing most with?" Eagerly, almost painfully, this question is put. The utter simplicity of it touches Dorian to his heart's core.
"With my brother, of course. She—she would not care to dance very much with any one else now, on account of her engagement."
"Her engagement?"