"Are you sure?" he says, in a carefully calm tone, "are you _sure_ you have done wisely?--I mean, will this be for your own _good_?" "Yes, yes, of course," with fretful impatience. "It was my own doing, I wished it." "How did it all come about?" asks he, gently. "I don't know. He has an abominable temper, as you know; and I--well, I have an abominable temper, too," she says, with a very wintry little smile, that seems made up of angry, but remorseful tears. "And--" "If you are going to say hard things of yourself I shall not listen," interrupts Gower, tenderly; "you and Roger have quarreled, but perhaps, when time makes you see things in a new light, you will forgive, and--" "No, never! I am sure of that. This quarrel is for--'_now and forever!_'" She repeats these last four words mechanically--words that bear but the commonest meaning to him, but are linked in her mind with associations full of bitterness. "And you have no regrets?" regarding her keenly. "None." "And does no faintest spark of love for him rest in your heart? Oh, Dulce, take care!" "Love! I never loved," she says, turning her large eyes full on his. "I have seen people who loved, and so I know. _They_ seem to live, think, breathe for each other alone; the very air seemed full of ecstasy to them; every hour of their day was a divine joy; but I--what have I known of all that?" She pauses and lays her hand upon her heart. "And he?" asks Gower, unwisely. She laughs ironically. "You have seen him," she says. "Not only that, but you have surely seen us together often enough to be able to answer your question for yourself. A very rude question, by-the-by." "I beg your pardon," says Gower, heartily ashamed of himself. "Oh, it doesn't matter," says Dulce, throwing out one hand in a quick, nervous fashion. "Nothing matters much, does it? And now that we are on it, I will answer your question. I believe if I were the only woman in the world, Roger would never have even liked me! He seemed _glad, thankful_, when I gave him a release; _almost_," steadily, "as glad as I was to give it!" "_Were_ you glad!" asks Gower, eagerly. Going up to her, he takes her hand and holds it with unconscious force in both his own. "Am I to think that you doubt me?" she says with a frown. "Shall I ever have occasion to doubt you?" says Gower, with sudden passion. "Dulce! now that you are free, will you listen to me? I have only one thought in the world, and that is you, always you! Have I any chance with you? My darling, my own, be kind to me and try to take me to your heart." The tears well into her eyes. She does not turn from him, but there is no joy in her face at this honest outburst, only trouble and perplexity, and a memory that stings. There is, too, some very keen gratitude.