Scrope, who is feeling very sorry for her, explains matters, while Dorian maintains a determined silence.
"Fifteen thousand pounds, if procured at once, would tide him over his difficulties," says Sir James, who does her the justice to divine her thoughts correctly. "Time is all he requires."
"I have twenty thousand pounds," says Georgie, eagerly. "Lord Sartoris says I may do what I like with it. Dorian,"—going up to him again,—"take it,—do, do. You will make me happier than I have been for a long time if you will accept it."
A curious expression lights Dorian's face. It is half surprise, half contempt: yet, after all, perhaps there is some genuine gladness in it.
"I cannot thank you sufficiently," he says, in a low tone. "Your offer is more than kind: it is generous. But I cannot accept it. It is impossible I should receive anything at your hands."
"Why?" she says, her lips white, her eyes large and earnest.
"Does that question require an answer?" asks Dorian, slowly. "There was a time, even in our short married life, when I believed in your friendship for me, and then I would have taken anything from you,—from my wife; but now, I tell you again, it is impossible. You yourself have put it out of my power."
He turns from her coldly, and concentrates his gaze once more upon the twilit garden.
"Don't speak to me like that,—at least now," says Georgie, her breath coming in short quick gasps. "It hurts me so! Take this wretched money, if—if you still have any love for me."
He turns deliberately away from the small pleading face.