"Yes. She is to be married to my brother some time next year."
He hates himself bitterly as he says this: but something within him compels him to the cruel deed, if only through pity for the girl who walks beside him.
They are now within the shade of trees, and he cannot see her face; though in very truth, if he could have seen it at this moment, he would not have looked at it. No word escapes her; she walks on steadily, as though actually made strong by the receiving of the blow.
Dorian would gladly believe that her silence means indifference; but to-night has forced a truth upon him that for months he has determinedly put behind him. Her tears, her agitation, the agony that shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon Horace's form in the window, have betrayed only too surely the secret she would so gladly hide.
She makes no further attempt at conversation, and, when they come to the little iron gate that leads on to the road, would have passed through, and gone on her homeward way mechanically, without bidding him even good-night, as if (which is indeed the case) she has forgotten the very fact of his near presence.
But he cannot let her go without a word.
"Good-night," he says, very kindly, his tone warmer because of his pity for her. "Take care of yourself. Are you sure you do not fear going alone?"
"Yes." Her voice is low, and sounds strange, even in her own ears.
"Wrap your shawl more closely round you. The night is cold. Is the pain in your side better?"
"Yes,"—almost regretfully.