"Don't think to deceive me," says Miss Scrope, in a terrible tone; whereupon Sir James flies the apartment, feeling in his heart that in a war of words Miss Scrope's match is yet to be found.
Entering the library at Sartoris, he finds Dorian there, alone, indeed, and comfortless, and sore at heart.
It is a dark dull day. The first breath of winter is in the air. The clouds are thick and sullen, and are lying low, as if they would willingly come down to sit upon the earth and there rest themselves,—so weary they seem, and so full of heaviness.
Above them a wintry sun is trying vainly to recover its ill temper. Every now and then a small brown bird, flying hurriedly past the windows, is almost blown against them by the strong and angry blast.
Within, a fire is burning, and the curtains are half drawn across the windows and the glass door, that leads, by steps, down into the garden. No lamps are lit, and the light is sombre and severe.
"You have come," says Dorian, advancing eagerly to meet him. "I knew I could depend upon you, but it is more than good of you to be here so soon. I have been moping a good deal, I am afraid, and forgot all about the lamps. Shall I ring for some one now to light them?"
"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying his hand upon his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like."
"Even that I had not given one thought to," says Branscombe, drearily. "Sitting here all alone, I gave myself up a prey to evil thoughts."
The word "alone" touches Sir James inexpressibly. Where was his wife all the time, that she never came to him to comfort and support him in his hour of need?
"Is everything as bad as you say?" he asks, presently, in a subdued tone.