"Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It sounded like it," says Dulce, wilfully.
"I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little gravely.
"Well, what is it you want me to do?" asks she, moving restlessly in her seat. She is, in spite of herself, disturbed by his gravity. "Am I to make love to him, or am I to let him make love to me? Your devotion to this old friend is quite touching."
"He would be very unlikely indeed to make love to you," replies Roger, rather stiffly. "He understands perfectly how matters are between you and me."
"Oh, no doubt," says Miss Blount, disgustedly. "Everyone seems to know all about this absurd engagement. I can't think how I was ever brought to consent to it."
"Absurd!" says Mr. Dare, in an impossible tone.
"Yes, painfully absurd! Quite too ridiculous," with unpleasant force.
"Oh!" says Mr. Dare.
"Yes," says Dulce, still defiant, though a little ashamed of herself, "it is quite enough to make people hate people, all this perpetual gossip."
"You are at least honest," he says, bitterly.
Silence.
Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little reflection grows very repentant.
Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still rests on the arm of her chair, and says, softly:
"I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite mean it. Tell me again what you want me to do about your friend."
"It was only a little matter," says Roger, in a low tone, "and it was, I think, the first favor I ever asked of you; and I thought, perhaps – "
He pauses. And raising himself from his lounging position, on her chair, moves as though he would go away from her, having abandoned all hope of having his request acceded to.
But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and so she detains him.
"What is it now?" he asks, coldly, trying to keep up his dignity, but as his glance meets hers, he melts. And, in truth, just now she could have thawed a much harder heart, for on her mignon face sits one of her very loveliest smiles, conjured up for Roger's special benefit.
"Don't go away," she entreats, prettily, "and listen to me. I shall be charming to your friend. I shall devote myself exclusively to him if it will please you; and if only to prove to you that I can grant you a favor."
"Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards her meditatively for a moment, and then says, slowly:
"Don't be too kind to him."
"Could I?" says Dulce, naively.
He laughs a little, and, bending his head, presses his lips to the little slender hand that still rests within his own.
The caress is so unusual that Dulce glances at him curiously from under her long lashes. A faint, pink glow creeps into her cheeks. She is surprised; perhaps, too, a little pleased, because once again this evening she bestows upon him a smile, soft and radiant.
Mr. Browne is rambling on in some incoherent fashion to Julia Beaufort. Sir Mark is telling Portia some quaint little stories. Fabian is silently listening to them stretched at Portia's feet.
The last glimpse of day has gone. "Death's twin sister, Sleep," has fallen upon the earth. One by one the sweet stars come out in the dusky vault above, "spirit-like, infinite."
In amongst the firs that stand close together in a huge clump at the end of the lawn, great shadows are lying, that stretching ever and ever further, form at last a link between the land and the sea.
"Ah! here you are, Stephen," says Sir Mark, addressing the languid young man they had met in the morning, who is coming to them across the grass. "Why didn't you come sooner?"
"They wouldn't give me any dinner until about an hour ago," says the languid young man in a subdued voice. He glances from Portia to Julia Beaufort, and then to Dulce. There his glance rests. It is evident he has found what he seeks.
"Dulce, I think I told you Stephen Gower was coming to-night," says Roger, simply. And then Dulce rises and rustles up to him, and filled with the determination to keep sacred her promise to be particularly nice to Roger's friend, holds out to him a very friendly hand, and makes him warmly welcome.
Then Portia makes him a little bow, and Julia simpers at him, and presently he finds himself accepted by and admitted to the bosom of the family, which, indeed, is a rather nondescript one. After a few moments of unavoidable hesitation, he throws himself at Dulce's feet, and, leaning on his elbow, tells himself country life, after all, isn't half a bad thing.
"What a heavenly night it is," says Dulce, smiling down on him, still bent on fulfilling her word to Roger. Perhaps she is hardly aware how encouraging her smile can be. "See the ocean down there," pointing with a rounded, soft, bare arm, that gleams like snow in the moonlight, to where the sea is shining between the trees. "How near it seems, though we know it is quite far away."
"It is nearer to you than I am," says Mr. Gower, in a tone that might imply the idea that he thinks the ocean in better care than himself.
"Well, not just now," says Dulce, laughing.
"Not just now," returns he, echoing her laugh. "I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies; but I wish the Fens was a little nearer to this place than it is."
"Portia, can you see Inca's Cliff from this?" asks Dulce, looking at her cousin. "You remember the spot where we saw the little blue flowers yesterday, that you so coveted. How clearly it stands out now beneath the moonbeams."
"Like burnished silver," says Portia, dreamily, always with a lazy motion wafting her black fan to and fro. "And those flowers – how I longed for them, principally, I suppose, because they were beyond my reach."
"Where are they," asks Roger. "I never remember seeing blue flowers there."
"Oh! you wouldn't notice them," says his fiancée, a fine touch of petulance in her tone, that makes Gower lift his head to look at her; "but they were there nevertheless. They were the very color of the Alpine gentian, and so pretty. We quite fell in love with them, Portia and I, Portia especially; but we could not get at them, they were so low down."
"There was a tiny ledge we might have stood on," says Portia, "but our courage failed us, and we would not try it."
"And quite right, too," says Sir Mark. "I detest people who climb precipices and descend cliffs. It makes my blood run cold."
"Then what made you climb all those Swiss mountains, two years ago?" asks Julia Beaufort, who has a talent for saying the wrong thing, and who has quite forgotten the love affair that drove Sir Mark abroad at that time.
"I don't know," replies he, calmly; "I never shall, I suppose. I perfectly hated it all the while, especially the guides, who were more like assassins than anything else. I think they hated me, too, and would have given anything to pitch me over some of the passes."
Portia laughs.
"I can sympathize with you," she says. "Danger of any sort has no charm for me. Yet I wanted those flowers. I think" – idly – "I shall always want them, simply because I can't get them."
"You shall have them in three seconds if you will only say the word," says Dicky Browne, who is all but fast asleep, and who looks quite as like descending a rugged cliff as Portia herself.
"I am so glad I don't know the 'word,'" says Portia, with a little grimace. "It would be a pity to endanger a valuable life like yours."
Dulce turns to Mr. Gower.
"You may smoke if you like," she says, sweetly. "I know you are longing for a cigarette or something, and we don't mind."
"Really though?" says Gower.
"Yes, really. Even our pretty town-lady here," indicating Portia, "likes the perfume in the open air."
"Very much indeed," says Portia, graciously, leaning a little toward Gower, and smiling sweetly.
"A moment ago I told myself I could not be happier," says Stephen, glancing at Dulce. "And indeed I wanted nothing further – but if I may smoke – if I have your permission to light this," producing a cigar, "I shall feel that my end is near; I shall know that the gods love me, and that therefore I must die young."
As he places the cigar between his lips he leans back again at Dulce's feet with a sigh suggestive of unutterable bliss.
"We were talking about you just before you came," says Dulce, with a little friendly nod, bending over his recumbent form, and making him a present of a very adorable smile. "We had all, you know, formed such different opinions about you."
"What was your opinion," asks he, rising to a sitting posture with an alacrity not to be expected from a youth of his indolence. In this last attitude, however, it is easier to see Dulce's charming face. "I should like to know that."
His manner implies that he would not like to hear the opinion of the others.
"It was nothing very flattering, I am afraid," said Dulce, with a little laugh. "I was – to confess the truth – just in the very faintest degree nervous about you."
"About me!"
"Yes," she laughed softly again; "I thought you might be a 'blue-and-white young man,' and that idea filled me with dismay. I don't think I like a 'soul-ful eyed young man,' too much."
"I'm so glad I'm of the 'threepenny 'bus' lot," says Gower, with a smile. "Ye gods! what a shocking thought is the other. Look at my hair, I entreat you, Miss Blount, and tell me does it resemble the lanky locks of Oscar?"
"No, it is anything but wylde," says Dulce, glancing at his shaven crown, that any hermit might be proud of: "and do you know I am glad of your sanity; I should quite hate you if you were a disciple of that school."
"Poor school," says Gower, pityingly, "for the first time I feel deep sympathy for it. But with regard to myself, I am flattered you troubled yourself to think of me at all. Did it really matter to you what my convictions might be?"
"Yes, of course," says Dulce, opening her eyes, and showing herself half in fun, half in earnest, and wholly desirable. "Such a near neighbor as you must be. I suppose we shall see a good deal of you – at least" – sweetly – "I hope we shall; and how would it be with us if you called here every morning with lanky tresses, and a cadaverous face, and words culled from a language obsolete?"
This little speech quite dazzles Gower. Not the sauciness of it, but the undercurrent of kindliness. "Every morning!" Does she really mean that he may come up to this enchanting spot every morning?
It had, of course, occurred to him, during prayers, in the early part of the day, when he had sat out the dreary service with exemplary patience, and his eyes fixed on the Blount pew, that, perhaps, he might be allowed to call once a week at the Hall, without being considered by the inmates an absolute nuisance – but every day! this sounds too good to be true, and is, therefore, received by him with caution.
"You needn't be afraid of me," he says, apropos of Dulce's last remark. "I can speak no language but my own, and that badly."
"What a comfort," says Miss Blount. She is now wondering if she has done her duty by her new guest, and if she has been everything to him that she ought to have been, considering her promise to Roger.
"Where is Fabian?" she asks, suddenly, peering through the dusky gloom. "Are you there, darling?"
But no one answers her. It seems to them, that, tiring of their company, he has betaken himself to solitude and the house, once more. No one has seen him go, but, during the last few minutes, a gray black cloud has been slowly wandering over the pale-faced moon, and forms and features have been more indistinct. Perhaps Portia, who is sitting on the outer edge of the group, might have noticed his departure, but, if so, she says nothing of it.
Time runs on. Some one yawns, and then tries vainly to turn it into a sigh. The bell from some distant steeple in the little slumbering village far below in the plain, tolls slowly, solemnly, as though to warn them that eleven more hours have slipped into the great and fathomless sea of Eternity.
"Ah! so late!" says Dulce, with a little start. "How swiftly time has gone to-night. I never knew it fly with such hot haste. That proves I have been happy, does it not?"
She smiles down upon Mr. Gower, who is still at her feet, and he smiles up only too willingly at her.
At this moment a dark figure emerges from amongst the moaning firs, and comes toward them. In the uncertain and somewhat ghostly light it appears of an unusually large size. Dulce draws her breath a little quickly, and Julia, feeling her duty lies in this direction, gives way to a dainty scream. Portia, whose eyes have been upon this new comer for a full minute before the others noticed him, only turns her head away, and lets it sink a degree more lazily into the cushion of her chair.
The firs mounting high into the sky, stand out boldly against their azure background. Fabian, in answer to Julia's touch of affectation, advances with more haste, and says:
"It is only me," in his usual clear, slow voice.
Passing by Portia's chair, he drops into her lap a little bunch of dark blue flowers.
"Ah!" she says quickly, then checks herself. Taking up the deeply-dyed blossoms, she lays them in her pink palm, and, bending her face over them, examines them silently. Sir Mark, regarding her curiously from the background, wonders whether she is thinking of them or of their donor.
"Why, those are the flowers we were talking about," says Dulce, with a faint contraction of her brows. "Fabian! Did you risk your life to get them?"
"Your life!" says Portia, in an indescribable tone, and as if the words are drawn from her against her will. I think she had made up her mind to keep utter silence, but some horror connected with Dulce's hasty remark has unbound her lips. She turns her eyes upon him, and he can see by the moonlight that her face is very white.
"My dear fellow," says Sir Mark, "you grow more eccentric daily. Now this last act was rashness itself. That cliff is very nearly impassable, and in this uncertain light – "
"It was the simplest thing in the world," says Fabian, coldly. "There was the ledge Dulce told you of, and plenty of tough heather to hold on by. I assure you, if there was the smallest danger, I should not have attempted it. And, besides, I was fully rewarded for any trouble I undertook. The view up there to-night is magnificent."
To Portia it is an easy matter to translate this last remark. He is giving her plainly to understand that he neither seeks nor desires thanks from her. The view has sufficed him. It was to let his eyes feast upon the glorious riches nature had spread before him that led him up the mountain-side, not a foolish longing to gratify her whim at any cost to himself.
She looks at the flowers again, and with one tapered finger turns them over and over in her hand.
"Well, good people," says Sir Mark, rising to his feet, "as it is eleven o'clock, and as the dew is falling, and as you are all plainly bent on committing suicide by means of rheumatism, neuralgia and catarrhs generally, I shall leave you and seek my virtuous couch."
"What's a catarrh?" asks Dicky Browne, confidentially, of no one in particular.
"A cold in your nose," replies Roger, uncompromisingly.
"I thought it was something to play on," says Mr. Browne unabashed.
"Dear me! Is it really eleven?" asks Julia. "I should never have thought it," – in reality she thought it was twelve – "why did you not tell me?" – this to the attentive Dicky, who is placing a shawl round her shoulders – "you must have known."
"'With thee conversing I forget all time,'" quotes that ardent personage, with a beautiful smile. "I thought it was only nine."
Even with this flagrant lie Julia is well pleased.
"Dulce, tuck up your gown, the grass is really wet," says Roger, carelessly, "and put this round you." He goes up to her, as he speaks, with a soft white scarf in his hands.
"Thank you; Mr. Gower will put it on for me," says Dulce, rather more wilfully than coquettishly handing the wrap to Stephen, who takes it as if it were some sacred symbol, and, with nervous care, smothers her slender figure in it. Roger, with a faint shrug, turns away, and devotes his attentions to Sir Mark.
Portia, still with the flowers in her hand, has wandered away from the others, and entering the drawing-room before they have mounted the balcony steps, goes up to a mirror and regards herself attentively for a moment.
A little gold brooch, of Indian workmanship, is fastening the lace at her bosom. She loosens it, and then raises the flowers (now growing rather crushed and drooping) as if with the evident intention of placing them, by means of the brooch, against her neck.
Yet, even with her hand half lifted she hesitates, glances at her own image again; and finally, turning away, leaves the brooch empty.
Fabian, entering the drawing-room at this moment with the others, has had time to notice the action, the hesitation, everything.
Then comes bed hour. The men prepare to go to the smoking-room – the women think fondly of their own rooms and their maids.
Fabian, lighting a candle, takes it up to Portia. They are all standing in the hall now, beneath the light of the hanging lamps. She smiles her thanks without letting her eyes meet his, and lets him place the candle in her left hand.
"Have you hurt this?" he asks, lightly touching her right hand as he speaks.
"No." She pauses a moment, and then, slowly opening her closed fingers, shows him the blue flowers lying therein.
"They are lovely," she says, in a low tone, "and I did wish for them. But never —never– do that again."
"Do what again?"
"Endanger your life for me."
"There was no danger – and you had expressed a wish for them."
CHAPTER X
"Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse!"
– Miguel de Cervantes.
With a continuous sob and a roar from the distant ocean the storm beats on. All night it has hurled itself upon path and lawn with impotent fury; towards morning it still rages, and even now, when noonday is at its height, its anger is not yet expended.
The rain falls in heavy torrents, the trees bow and creak most mournfully, the rose leaves – sweet-scented and pink as glowing morn – are scattered along the walks, or else, lifted high in air by vehement gusts of wind, are dashed hither and thither in a mazy dance full of passion and despair.
"Just three o'clock," says Dulce, drearily, "and what weather!"
"It is always bad on your day," says Julia, with a carefully suppressed yawn. Julia, when yawning, is not pretty. "I remember when I was here last year, that Thursday, as a rule, was the most melancholy day in the week."
Indeed, as she speaks, she looks more than melancholy, almost aggrieved. She has donned her most sensational garments (there is any amount of red about them) and her most recherché cap to greet the country, and naught cometh but the rain.
"I don't know anything more melancholy at any time than one's at-home day," says Dicky Browne, meditatively, and very sorrowfully; "It is like Sunday, it puts every one out of sorts, and creates evil tempers all round. I never yet knew any family that didn't go down to zero when brought face to face with the fact that to-day they must receive their friends."
"It's a pity you can't talk sense," says Dulce, with a small curl of her upper lip.
"It's a pity I can, you mean. I am too above-board, too genuine for the times in which we live. My candor will be my ruin!" says Mr. Browne, hopelessly unabashed.
"It will!" declares Roger, in a tone that perhaps it will be wise not to go into.
"I suppose nobody will come here to-day," says Portia, somewhat disappointedly; they have been indoors all day, and have become so low in spirit, that even the idea of possible visitors is to be welcomed with delight.
"Nobody," returns Sir Mark, "except the Boers and Miss Gaunt, and they are utter certainties; they always come; they never fail us; they are thoroughly safe people in every respect."
"If Miss Gaunt inflicts herself upon us to-day (which the gods forbid), be sure you pitch into her about the cook she sent you," says Roger, gloomily, turning to Dulce. "That will be a topic of conversation at all events; you owe me a debt of gratitude for suggesting it."
"Well I shan't pay it," says Miss Blount, with decision.
"Well you ought. As a rule, the attempts at conversation down here are calculated to draw tears to the eyes of any intellectual person."
"But why?" asks Portia, indolently.
"It is utterly simple," says Roger, mildly. "There is nothing to talk about; you cannot well ask people what they had for dinner yesterday, without being rude, and there are no theatres, or concerts, or clubs to discuss, and nobody ever dies (the country is fatally healthy), and nobody ever gets married (because there is nobody to marry), and nothing is ever born, because they were all born years ago, or else have made up their minds never to be born at all. It is, in fact, about as unsatisfactory a neighborhood as any one could wish to inhabit."
"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce.
"You have strong faith," retorts Roger.
"Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir Mark, amiably, with a view to restoring order.
"I don't think it is half a bad place," says Dicky Browne, genially, addressing nobody in particular, and talking for the mere sake of hearing his own voice.
"Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly.
"Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed sneer, which brings down upon him a withering glance from his betrothed.
"How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window with two impatient little fingers.
"I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly.
"Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you make such a ridiculous remark! I never heard of any one who liked rain."
"Well, you hear of me now. I like it."
"Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously.
"It isn't nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am entitled to my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as much as you do me if you wish it; but at least allow me to – "
"Love it, as you do me," with an artificial laugh, and a soft shrug of her rounded shoulders. "It is perfectly absurd, in spite of your obstinate determination to say you do, I don't believe you can have a desire for wet weather."
"Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me the lie direct. I must say you can be uncivil when you choose."
"Uncivil!"
"Decidedly uncivil, and even more than that."
"What do you mean! I insist on knowing what you mean by more."
"They're at it again," says Mr. Browne, at this auspicious moment, waving his hand in an airy fashion in the direction of our two belligerents.
Mr. Browne is a person who can always say and do what he likes for several reasons, the principal being that nobody pays the smallest attention to either his sayings or doings. Everybody likes Dicky, and Dicky, as a rule, likes everybody. He has a father and a home somewhere, but where (especially with regard to the former), is vague.
The home, certainly, is kept up for nobody except the servants, as neither Dicky nor his father ever put in an appearance there. The latter (who has never yet mastered the fact that he is growing old), spends all his time in the favorite window of his Club in Pall Mall, with his nose pressed against the pane and his attention irrevocably fixed upon the passers-by on the other side of the way. This is his sole occupation from morning till night; unless one can take notice of a dismal and most diabolical tattoo that at unfortunate moments he is in the habit of inflicting upon the window, and the nerves of the other occupants of the room in which he may be.
Dicky puts in most of his time at Blount Hall. Indeed, it has grown to be a matter of speculation with the Blount's whether in the event of his marriage he will not elect to bring his bride also to stay with them for good and all! They have even gone so far as to hope he will marry a nice girl, and one whom they can receive in the spirit of love.
"I don't think they really ever quite enjoy themselves, until they are on the verge of bloodshed," says Sir Mark, in answer to Dicky's remark. "They are the very oddest pair I ever met."
All this is said quite out loud, but so promising is the quarrel by this time, that neither Dulce nor Roger hear one word of it.
"You do it on purpose," Dulce is saying in a tone in which tears and extreme wrath fight for mastery, "You torment me from morning till night. You are both rude and unkind to me. And now —now– what is it you have just said?"
"What have I said?" asks Roger, who is plainly frightened.
"What indeed! I should be ashamed to repeat it. But I know you said I was uncivil, and that I told lies, and any amount of things that were even worse."
"What on earth is the matter now with you two children?" asks Sir Mark, coming for the second time to the rescue.
"I'm sure I don't know," says Roger, desperately. "It was all about the rain, I think. She is angry because I like it. How can I help that? I can't be born again with other preferences just to oblige her."
"There is some comfort in that thought," says Miss Blount, vindictively. "One of you in a century is quite sufficient."
"Oh! come now, Dulce," protests Sir Mark, kindly. "You don't mean that, you know. And besides only pretty speeches should come from pretty lips."
"Well, he does nothing but tease me," says Dulce, tearfully. "He makes my life perfectly wretched to me."
"How can you say that!" exclaims Dare, indignantly. "I spend my whole time trying to please you – in vain! It is your own temper is at fault."
"You hear that?" exclaims Dulce, triumphantly, turning to Sir Mark, who is trying vainly to edge in one word.
"I maintain what I say," goes on Roger, hurriedly, fearful lest Sir Mark if he gets time, will say something to support Dulce's side of the question. "It can't be my fault. You know I am very fond of you. There have even been moments," says Mr. Dare, superbly, "when if you had asked me to lie down and let you trample on me, I should have done it!"
"Then do it!" says Dulce, with decision. "Now this moment. I am in an awful temper, and my heels are an inch and a half high. I should perfectly love to trample on you. So make haste" – imperiously, "hurry, I'm waiting."
"I shan't," says Dare; "I shan't make myself ridiculous for a girl who detests me."
"Now, isn't that just like him?" says Dulce, appealing to the company at large, who are enjoying themselves intensely – notably Mr. Brown. "Simply because I told him it would give me some slight pleasure if he fulfilled his promise, he has decided on breaking it. He has refused to keep his solemn word, just to vex me."
"That is not my reason."
"Then you are afraid of the high-heeled shoes," with a scornful laugh.
"I am afraid of nothing," hotly.
"Not even of ridicule?"
"Well, yes, I am afraid of that. Most fellows are. But I don't wish to carry on the argument, I have nothing more to say to you."
"Nor I to you. I hope you will never address me again as long as you live. Ah!" glancing out of the window, with an assumption of the most extreme relief and joy – "Here is Mr. Gower coming across the lawn. I am glad. Now, at least, I shall have some one to talk to me, who will not scold and quarrel incessantly, and who can sometimes behave like a gentleman."
"Tell him so. It will raise him to the seventh heaven of delight, no doubt," says Roger, in an indescribable tone.
"I thought it was arranged that we were not to speak to each other again," says Dulce, with considerable severity.
Now Portia, being strange to the household, is a little frightened, and a good deal grieved by this passage at arms.
"Is it really so bad as they would have us think?" she says, in a low tone, to Sir Mark, whom she has beckoned to her side. "Is it really all over between them?"
"Oh, dear, no!" says Sir Mark, with the fine smile that characterizes his lean, dark face. "Don't make yourself unhappy; we are quite accustomed to their idiosyncrasies by this time; you, of course, have yet much to learn. But, when I tell you that, to my certain knowledge, they have bid each other an eternal adieu every week during the past three years, you will have your first lesson in the art of understanding them."
"Ah! you give me hope," says Portia, smiling.
At this moment Mr. Gower enters the room.
"Ah! how d'ye do!" says Dulce, nestling up to him, her soft skirts making a gentle frou-frou as she moves; "so glad you have come. You are late, are you not?" She gives him her hand, and smiles up into his eyes. To all the others her excessive cordiality means only a desire to chagrin Dare, to Stephen Gower it means – well, perhaps, at this point of their acquaintance he hardly knows what it means – but it certainly heightens her charms in his sight.
"Am I?" he says, in answer to her remark. "That is just what has been puzzling me. My watch has gone to the bad, and all the way here I have felt as if the distance between my place and the Hall was longer than I had ever known it before. If I am to judge by my own impatience to be here, I am late, indeed."
She smiles again at this, and says, softly:
"You are not wet, I hope? Such a day to come out. It was a little rash, was it not?"
With the gentlest air of solicitude she lays one little white jeweled hand upon his coat sleeve, as though to assure herself no rain had alighted there. Gower laughs gaily.
"Wet? No," he says, gazing at her with unmistakable admiration. His eyes betray the fact that he would gladly have lifted the small jeweled hand from his arm to his lips; but, as it is, he does not dare so much as to touch it though never so lightly. "Rain does me more good than harm," he says.
"How did you come?" asks she, still charmingly anxious about his well-being.
"I rode. A very good mare, too; though it seemed to me she never traveled so slowly as to-day."
"You rode? Ah! then you got all that last heavy shower," says Dulce, who has plainly made up her mind to go in for compassion of the very purest and simplest.
"My dear fellow!" puts in Roger at this juncture, "you don't half consider yourself. Why on earth didn't you order out the covered carriage and a few fur rugs?"