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He seems to have carried his policy triumphantly with the Queen, and from henceforth for many a long year "the dulce ways" and "politic drifts" recommended by the great Cardinal Statesman of Henry VIII. were to give way to that remorseless struggle in which the only alternative offered to the Irish was uniformity or extermination.
"But I must come in for the title and the estate when the old boy, my cousin, 'shuffles off this mortal coil, and in the meantime the governor stands to me decently enough, and I'm pretty jolly all round." "Tell us about Stephen Gower," says Dulce, after a pause, "He interests me, I don't know why. What is he like?" "He is 'A greenery yallery Grosvenor gallery Foot-in-the-grave young man."
When one has been straining one's lungs in a vain endeavor to be heard by a beloved object, one naturally magnifies five minutes into an hour. Dulce stares at him in a bewildered fashion. Her manner, indeed, considering all things, is perfect. "Why didn't you answer me?" asks Mr. Gower, feeling himself justified in throwing some indignation into this speech.
'Why, they are much the same thing, said Clodius. "Ah!" quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, "my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the dulce." O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve! While I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite freedman was just dead of a fever. "Inexorable death!" cried he; "get me my Horace.
"After all, you know," says Dulce, suddenly stopping short on the last step of the kitchen stairs to harangue the politely dressed mob that follows at her heels, "it might, perhaps, be as well if I went on first and prepared cook for your coming. She is not exactly impossible you see, but to confess the truth she can be at times difficult." "What would she do to us?" asks Dicky, curiously.
Her eyes are brilliant, and round her generally soft lips lies a touch of determination foreign to them, and hardly becoming. Presently dinner comes to an end, and then the three women rise and rustle away toward the drawing-room, where follows a dreary half hour, indeed. This makes things even harder for Portia and Dulce.
"Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound," and must now, therefore, be happy, as Boreas is asserting himself nobly, both on land and sea. Dulce, who is dressed in brown velvet and fur, is gliding gracefully hither and thither with her hand fast locked in Roger's.
The footsteps of the solemn butler, and his equally solemn assistant, is all the sound one hears, and presently they all wake to the fact that something must be said, and soon. "What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly to the front, with a laudable desire to fill up the yawning gap. "Yes melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in duty bound; "out of all heart, apparently."
Why on earth didn't you order out the covered carriage and a few fur rugs?" Gower colors; but Roger is smiling so naturally that he cannot, without great loss of courtesy, take offence. Treating Dare's remark, however, as beneath notice, he turns and addresses himself solely to Dulce. "To tell you the truth," he says, calmly, "I adore rain.
His quarrel with Dulce on the night of her ball has been tacitly put aside by both, and though it still smoulders and is likely at any moment to burst again into a flame, is carefully pushed out of sight for the present. "Does it take long to make jam?" asks Sir Mark, putting in his query before Stephen Gower, who is also present, can say anything. "Well it quite depends," says Dulce, vaguely.
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