"Then why are you marrying me?" demands he, a little roughly, stung to pained anger by her words.
"Because I promised papa, when—when he was leaving me, that I would marry the very first rich man that asked me," replies she, again lifting her serious eyes to his. "I thought it would make him happier. And it did. I am keeping my promise now," with a sigh that may mean regret for her dead, or, indeed, anything.
"Are you not afraid to go too far?" demands he, very pale, moving back from her, and regarding her with moody eyes. "Do you quite know what you are saying—what you are compelling me, against my will, to understand?"
She is plainly not listening to him. She is lost in a mournful revery, and, leaning back in her chair, is staring at her little white fingers in an absent fashion, and is twisting round and round upon her third finger an old worn-out gold ring. Poor little ring, so full of sweet and moving memories!
"It was very fortunate," she says, suddenly, with a smile, and without looking up at him, being still engrossed in her occupation of twisting the ring round her slender finger,—"it was more than fortunate that the first rich man should be you."
"Much more," he says, in an indescribable tone. Then with an effort, "Would you have thrown me over had I been poor?"
"I shouldn't have consented to marry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.
"As I said before, to be candid is your forte," exclaims he, with extreme bitterness. "I wonder even if you loved a man to distraction (I am not talking of myself, you know,—that is quite evident, is it not?) would you reject him if he was not sufficiently—bon parti?"
"I don't think I could love any one to distraction," replies she, quite simply. It seems the very easiest answer to this question.
"I believe you speak the very honest truth when you say that," says Dorian, drawing his breath quickly. "You are indeed terribly honest. You don't even shrink from telling the man you have elected to marry that he is no more to you than any other man might be who was equally possessed of filthy—if desirable—lucre!"