"I have no patience with Georgie," says Clarissa, indignantly. "She is positively breaking his heart."
"She is unhappy, poor little thing," says Scrope, who cannot find it in his heart to condemn the woman who has just condemned Horace Branscombe.
"It is her own fault if she is. I know few people so lovable as Dorian. And now to think he has another trouble makes me wretched. I do hope you are wrong about Sawyer."
"I don't think I am," says Scrope; and time justifies his doubt of Dorian's steward.
"Sartoris, Tuesday, four o'clock.
"Dear Scrope,—
"Come up to me at once, if possible. Everything here is in a deplorable state. You have heard, of course, that Sawyer bolted last night; but perhaps you have not heard that he has left things in a ruinous state. I must see you with as little delay as you can manage. Come straight to the library, where you will find me alone.
"Yours ever,
"D. B."