She is awed more than she cares to confess by his manner, which is different from anything she has ever seen in him before. The kind-hearted, easy-going Dorian is gone, leaving a stern, passionate, disappointed man in his place.
"Have I ill-used you?" he goes on, vehemently. "Have I spoken harsh words to you, or thwarted you in any way? Ever since the first hour that saw you my wife have I refused to grant your lightest wish? Speak, and let us hear the truth of this matter. I am a bad husband, you say,—so infamous that it is impossible for you to receive even the common necessaries of life at my hands! How have I failed in my duty towards you?"
"In none of the outward observances," she says, faintly. "And yet you have broken my heart!"
There is a pause. And then Dorian laughs aloud,—a terrible, sneering, embittered laugh, that strikes cold on the hearts of the hearers.
"Your heart!" he says, witheringly. "Why, supposing for courtesy's sake you did possess such an inconvenient and unfashionable appendage, it would be still absurd to accuse me of having broken it, as it has never been for five minutes in my possession."
Taking out his watch, he examines it leisurely. Then, with an utter change of manner, addressing Lord Sartoris, he says, with cold and studied politeness,—
"If you have quite done with me, I shall be glad, as I have another appointment at three."
"I have quite done," says his uncle, wistfully, looking earnestly at the handsome face before him that shows no sign of feeling whatsoever. "I thank you much for having so far obliged me."
"Pray do not mention it. Good-morning."
"Good-morning," says Sartoris, wearily. And Branscombe, bowing carelessly, leaves the room without another word.