Then, seeing the extreme sadness that has
settled on her _mignonne_ face, that should, by right, only be glad with
smiles, goes on more gently: "Be happy; I shall do all you ask me."

"Ah, Portia, you here, too," says Dulce, smiling gratefully at her. "How
sweet you are looking to-night--and your gown--how perfect. Isn't it
lovely, Fabian?"

"Quite lovely," slowly.

"And she herself, too," goes on Dulce, enthusiastically, "isn't _she_
lovely, as well?"

"Yes," says Fabian, still more slowly.

"She is like a dream of snow, or purity--or something," says Dulce,
vaguely, but admiringly.

"Or ice?" says Fabian.

"Oh, _no_, not _ice_. It is too hard, too unsympathetic, too cold."

"They are both cold, are they not?" says Portia, with a very faint
smile. "Both ice and snow."

"Dulce, Dulce!" calls somebody, from without.

"Now, who _is_ that," says Miss Blount, irritably. "Roger, of _course_.
I really never am allowed one moment to myself when he is in the house.
He spends his entire time, first calling me, and then quarreling with me
when he finds me. He does it on purpose, I think. He can't bear me to
have even one peaceful or happy instant. I never met any one so utterly
provoking as Roger."

She runs to him, nevertheless, and Portia moves as if to follow her.

"Don't leave me in anger," entreats Fabian, in some agitation, detaining
her by a gesture full of entreaty. "Do anything but that. Think of the
long hours I shall have to put in here, by myself, with nothing but my
own thoughts; and say something kind to me before you go."

"You forget," she says, with slow reproach, her eyes on the ground. "How
can you hope for anything--even one word--sympathetic from _ice_. Let me
go to Dulce."

"You _shall_ not leave me like this," dictates he, desperately, shutting
the door with sudden passion, and deliberately placing his back against
it. "Am I not sufficiently unhappy that you should seek to make me even
more so; to add, indeed, a very crown to my misery. I will not face the
long night alone with this fresh grief! The remembrance of your face as
it now looks at me, of your eyes, so calm, so unforgiving, would fill
the weary hours with madness. _You_ don't know what it is to endure the
pangs of Tantalus, to have a perpetual hunger at your heart that can
never be satisfied. _I_ do. I have suffered enough. You must be friends
with me before you go."

"I came to make friends with you. I wanted to be friends wi