“For heaven’s sake, take away that handkerchief, my good child!  Why have you let your dinner get cold?  Here,” he lifted a cover; “here’s roast-beef.  You like it—­why don’t you eat it?  That’s only a small piece of the general inconsistency, I know.  And why haven’t they put champagne on the table for you?  You lose your spirits without it.  If you took it when these moody fits came on—­but there’s no advising a woman to do anything for her own good.  Dahlia, will you do me the favour to speak two or three words with me before I go?  I would have dined here, but I have a man to meet me at the Club.  Of what mortal service is it shamming the insensible?  You’ve produced the required effect, I am as uncomfortable as I need be.  Absolutely!

“Well,” seeing that words were of no avail, he summed up expostulation and reproach in this sigh of resigned philosophy:  “I am going.  Let me see—­I have my Temple keys?—­yes!  I am afraid that even when you are inclined to be gracious and look at me, I shall not, be visible to you for some days.  I start for Lord Elling’s to-morrow morning at five.  I meet my father there by appointment.  I’m afraid we shall have to stay over Christmas.  Good-bye.”  He paused.  “Good-bye, my dear.”

Two or three steps nearer the door, he said, “By the way, do you want anything?  Money?—­do you happen to want any money?  I will send a blank cheque tomorrow.  I have sufficient for both of us.  I shall tell the landlady to order your Christmas dinner.  How about wine?  There is champagne, I know, and bottled ale.  Sherry?  I’ll drop a letter to my wine-merchant; I think the sherry’s running dry.”

Her sense of hearing was now afflicted in as gross a manner as had been her sense of smell.  She could not have spoken, though her vitality had pressed for speech.  It would have astonished him to hear that his solicitude concerning provender for her during his absence was not esteemed a kindness; for surely it is a kindly thing to think of it; and for whom but for one for whom he cared would he be counting the bottles to be left at her disposal, insomuch that the paucity of the bottles of sherry in the establishment distressed his mental faculties?

“Well, good-bye,” he said, finally.  The door closed.

Had Dahlia’s misery been in any degree simulated, her eyes now, as well as her ears, would have taken positive assurance of his departure.  But with the removal of her handkerchief, the loathsome sight of the dinner-table would have saluted her, and it had already caused her suffering enough.  She chose to remain as she was, saying to herself, “I am dead;” and softly revelling in that corpse-like sentiment.  She scarcely knew that the door had opened again.

“Dahlia!”

She heard her name pronounced, and more entreatingly, and closer to her.

“Dahlia, my poor girl!” Her hand was pressed.  It gave her no shudders.

“I am dead,” she mentally repeated, for the touch did not run up to her heart and stir it.