the hour, and something,
perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's
eyes.

"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low
tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so
changed. He _used_ to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very
expressive.

"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.

"Yes; a right down good sort."

"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly
ignorant.

"To you--yes."

There is a pause.

"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have
warned him to be silent.

"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he asks her, eagerly.
"His voice, his glance, his whole manner were unbearable; you bore it
like an angel--but--why should you bear _anything_? Why should you
trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little
for him as he cares for--"

"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.

"As he cares for _you_, then," says Stephen, recklessly.

"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," exclaims Dulce,
turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I suppose, indeed, you are not
alone in your judgment. I daresay it is apparent to the whole world that
I am a matter of perfect indifference to--to--my cousin!"

"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. "Why
should I lie to you? He must be blind and deaf, I think--it is not to be
accounted for in any other way. Why, that other morning in the garden,
you remember how he then--"

"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him,
deep offence in her eyes.

But he follows her.

"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her
averted face.

"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it because you tell
me Roger does not care for me? Do you think I did not know that before?
It is, indeed, a question with me whether I am or am not an object of
aversion to the man I have promised to marry."

"You speak very hardly," he says.

"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.

"Nevertheless, I should not have said what I did," says Stephen,
remorsefully, "I know that. Whatever I might have thought, I should have
kept it to myself; but"--in a low tone--"it maddens me to see you give
yourself voluntarily to one incapable of appreciating the treasure that
has fallen to his share--a treasure beyond pric