Her eyes darken as he speaks, and, releasing herself from his embrace,—which, in truth, has somewhat slackened,—she moves back from him. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose their soft color, and—
"With that, the water in her eie
Arose, that she ne might it stoppe;
And, as men sene the dew be droppe
The leves and the floures eke,
Right so upon her white cheke
The wofull salt teres felle."
"I don't want to hurt you," she says, with a sob; "and I know I am not heartless." There is a faint tinge of indignation in her tone.
"Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so. Darling, whatever else may render me unhappy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man."
"But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: "you must always remember that. There was one; and"—she is plainly in the mood for confessions—"I shall never love you or any one as I loved him."
"What are you going to tell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? "Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?"
"I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago—at least, I——"
"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am."
"I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it—and it isn't my fault—and you are very unkind to me—and——"
"Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Branscombe, with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you know,—I rather admire your faithfulness there,—but I thought—er—it doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than any living man."