In one moment his designs are frustrated. All his plans are laid low. The voice of Julia breaks upon his ear like a death-knell. She, being fully convinced in her own mind that "poor dear Stephen" is feeling himself in the cold, and is, therefore, inconceivably wretched, determines, with most mistaken kindness, to come to the rescue. "Stephen, _may_ I ask you to do something for me?" she says, in her sweetest tones and with her most engaging smile. "You may," says Mr. Gower, as in duty bound, and in an awful tone. "Then do come and help me to wind this wool," says Julia, still in her most fetching manner, holding out for his inspection about as much scarlet wool as it would take an hour to wind, doing it at one's utmost speed. With a murderous expression Stephen crosses the room to where she is sitting--at the very antipodes from where he would be, that is, from Dulce--and drops sullenly into a chair at her side. "Poor dear fellow, already he is feeling injured and out of spirits," says Julia to herself, regarding him with furtive compassion. "Beast! she is in a plot against me!" says Mr. Gower to his own soul, feeling he could willingly strangle her with her red wool. So do we misunderstand the feelings and motives of our best friends in this world. Dulce and Roger thus left to their own resources, continue to be openly and unrestrainedly happy. Every now and then a laugh from one or other of them comes to the stricken Stephen, sitting on his stool of repentance, winding the endless wool. By and by it becomes worse when no laugh is heard, and when the two upon the ottoman seem to be conversing in a tone that would be a whisper if it dared. To Gower it is already a whisper, and frenzy ensues. Wild thoughts arise within his breast; something it seems to him must be done, and that _soon_. Shall he throw this vile wool, this scarlet abomination, in Julia's placid face, and with a naughty word defy her to hold him prisoner any longer? Or shall he fling himself bodily upon Roger and exterminate him? Or shall he publicly upbraid Dulce with her perfidy? No; this last is too mild a course, and something tells him would not create the havoc that alone can restore peace to his bosom. Shall he-- Oh, blessed sound, the dressing bell. Now she must tear herself away from this new-found cousin and go up-stairs--doubtless to array herself in her choicest garments for his delectation later on. He grinds his teeth again, as this thought comes to torment him. Regardless of Julia's cry of horror and remonstrance, he drops the wool and rises to his feet, leaving it a hopeless mass on the carpet. He makes a step in Dulce's direction, but she, too, has got up, and before he can reach her has disappeared through the doorway, and is half-way up the old oak staircase.