"Oh! doesn't he?" says Dulce, sarcastically. "He'd eat anything sweet. It isn't three days ago since he stole all my chocolate creams, and ate them every one." "I did not," says Roger. "Yes, he did," declares Dulce, ignoring Roger, and addressing herself solely to Julia. "He did, indeed, and _denied_ it afterwards, which just shows what he is capable of." "I repeat that I did not," says Roger, indignantly. "I found them certainly in your room up-stairs--your sitting-room--but I gave them to the Boodie." "Oh! _say_ so," says Miss Blount, ironically. "Chocolate creams!" says the small Boodie, emerging from an obscure and unexpected corner. "What about them? Where are they? Have you any, mamma?" "_You_ ought to know where they are," says Dare, flushing; "you ate them." "When?" asks the Boodie, in a searching tone. "Yes, indeed, _when_?" repeats Dulce, unpleasantly. "You remember the day Roger gave you some, don't you, darling?" says the darling's mamma, with the kindly intention of soothing matters. "No, I don't," says the uncompromising Boodie, her blue eyes wide, and her red lips apart. "Do you mean to tell me I didn't give you a whole box full the day before yesterday?" exclaims Mr. Dare, wrathfully, going up to the stolid child, and looking as if he would like to shake her. "Day before yesterday?" murmurs the Boodie, with a glance so far from the present moment that it might be in Kamtschatka. "Yes, exactly, _the day before yesterday_!" says Roger, furiously. "How could I remember about that?" says the Boodie, most nonchalantly. "Oh, don't scold the poor child," says Dulce, mildly, "she won't like it; and I am sure she is not in fault. Go away, Boodie, Roger doesn't like being shown up." "Shown up! Upon my _life_ I gave her those vile bon-bons," says Mr. Dare, distractedly, "If I wanted them couldn't I buy them? Do you suppose I go round the world stealing chocolate creams?" At this, poor Julia getting frightened, and considering the case hopeless, rises from her seat and beats a most undignified retreat. This leaves the combatants virtually alone. "There is hardly anything you wouldn't do in my opinion," says Dulce, scornfully. A pause. Then: "What a temper you have!" exclaims Roger, with the most open contempt. "Not so bad as yours, at all events. Your face is as white as death from badly suppressed rage." "It is a pity you can't see your own," says Roger slowly. "Don't speak to me like that, Roger," says Dulce, quickly, her eyes flashing; "and--and say at once," imperiously, "that you know perfectly well I have the temper of an angel, in comparison with yours." "Would you have me tell a deliberate lie?" says Roger, coldly. This brings matters to a climax. Silence follows, that lasts for a full minute (a long time in such a case), and then Dulce speaks again. Her voice is quite changed; out of it all passion and excitement have been carefully withdrawn.