"What you say is all _too_ true," says Dulce, calmly; then, with most suspicious gentleness, and a smile that is all "sweetness and light," "_would_ you mind removing your arm from my waist. It makes me feel faint. Thanks, _so_ much." After this silence again reigns. Several minutes go by, and nothing can be heard save the soughing of the rising wind, and the turbulent rushing of the stream below. Dulce is turning the rings round and round upon her pretty fingers; Stephen is looking out to sea with a brow as black as thunder, or any of the great gaunt rocks far out to the West, that are frowning down upon the unconscious ocean. Presently something--perhaps it is remorse--strikes upon Dulce's heart and softens her. She goes nearer to him and slips one small, perfect hand through his arm, she even presses his arm to her softly, kindly, with a view to restoring its owner to good temper. This advance on her part has the desired effect. Stephen forgets there is such a thing as a sea, and, taking up the little, penitent hand, presses it tenderly to his lips. "Now, do not let us be disagreeable any more," says Dulce, prettily. "Let us try to remember what we were talking about before we began to discuss Roger." Mr. Gower grasps his chance. "I was saying that though we have been engaged now for some time you have never once kissed me," he says, hopefully. "And would you," reproachfully, "after all I have said, risk the chance of making me, perhaps, hate you, too? I have told you how I detest being kissed, yet now you would argue the point. Oh, Stephen! is this your vaunted love?" "But it is a curious view you take of it, isn't it, darling?" suggests Gower, humbly, "to say a kiss would raise hatred in your breast. I am perfectly certain it would make _me_ love _you_ MORE!" "Then you could love me more?" with frowning reproach. "No, no! I didn't mean that, only--" "I must say I am greatly disappointed in you," says Miss Blount, with lowered eyes. "I shouldn't have believed it of you. Well, as you are bent on rushing on your fate, I'll tell you what I will do." "What?" he turns to her, a look of eager expectancy on his face. Is she going to prove kind at last? "Sometime," begins she, demurely, "no doubt I shall marry you--some time, that is, in the coming century--and then, when the time is finally arranged, just the very morning of our marriage, you shall kiss me, not before. That will prevent our having time to quarrel and part." "Do you mean to tell me," indignantly, "you have made up your mind never to kiss me until we are married?" "Until the morning _of_ our marriage," corrects she. "You might as well say _never_!" exclaims Gower, very justly incensed. "I will, if you like," retorts she, with the utmost _bonhommie_. "It is getting too cold for you to stay out any longer," says Stephen, with great dignity; "come, let us return to the house." CHAPTER XXI. "'Tis impossible to love and be wise."