"It seems a paltry thing now to say that I love you," goes on Gower in an impassioned tone that carries her away with it, now that she is sore at heart; "You _know_ that. You have known it for weeks." He puts aside with a gesture her feeble attempt at contradiction. "Every thought of my heart is yours; I live only in the hope that I shall soon see you again. Tell me now honestly, would it be possible to break off this engagement with your cousin?" At this she shrinks a little from him, and a distressed look comes into her beautiful eyes. "What are you saying?" she says, in a half-frightened way. "It has been going on for so long, this engagement--_always_, as it seems to me. How should I break it off? And then there is Uncle Christopher, he would be unhappy; he would not forgive, and--besides--" Her voice dies away. Memory vague but sharp, comes to her. If she should now deliberately discard Roger, how will it be with her in the future? And yet what if he should be glad of his freedom; should welcome it with open arms? If, indeed, he should be only waiting for her to take the initiative, and give him his release! This reflection carries its sting; there is madness in it. She closes her lips firmly, and her breath comes quickly and uncertainly. "It will be better for you later on," breaks in Gower, tempting her, surely but quietly. "When you are married--it is all very well for you now, when escape at any moment is possible; but when you are irrevocably bound to an unloving husband how will it be with you? Other women have tried it, and how has it ended with them? Not as it will with you, I know; you are far above the many; but still your life will drag with you--there will be no joy! no sympathy! no--Dulce have pity on yourself (I do not say on _me_), and save yourself while you can." She makes a last faint protest. "How do you _know_ he does not love me?" she asks, painfully. "How can you be sure?--and at least"--wistfully--"we are accustomed to each other, we have known each other all our lives, and we have quarrelled _so_ hard already that we can scarcely do anything more--the worst with us is over." "It will be different then," says Gower--he is speaking from his heart in all honesty. "Now you belong to him only in an improbable fashion; then--" "It is your belief that he does not love me at all?" interrupts she, tapping her foot impatiently upon the ground. "It is my belief," returns he slowly. Almost as he speaks, some one steps from the lighted room beyond on the balcony and approaches them. It is Roger. "This is ours, I think," he says, addressing Dulce, and alluding to the waltz just commencing. "Is it--what a pity; I had quite forgotten," she says, wilfully. "I am afraid I have half promised it to Mr. Gower, and you know _he_ dances charmingly."