"Well--Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and unpardonable bad taste. "_He_ looks as though he could do a lover's part at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort." As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and leaves them. Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets her eyes meet Gower's bravely. "I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?" "On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a minute or two?" She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him through the lighted, heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, where the cool air is blowing, and where the fresh scent from the waving pines makes itself felt. The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the band within. It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's heart" begins to throb, "And a wind blows, With unknown freshness over lands and seas." Something in the silence and majesty of 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.