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Updated: June 19, 2025
By this time, indeed, the whole room has noticed his infatuation, and covert remarks about the probability of her carrying on to a successful finish her first engagement are whispered here and there. Sir Christopher is looking grave and anxious. Some kind friend has been making him as uncomfortable about Dulce's future as circumstances will permit.
He is making love indiscriminately all round with old maids and young married and single with the most touching impartiality. "Dicky is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if he improves the shining hours, he ought to make a good match yet," says Dicky's papa, who has condescended to forsake his club for one night, and grace Dulce's ball with his somewhat attenuated charms.
Once more they breathe, and order is restored, to Gower's deep regret, as he has managed, in the melee, to seize hold of Dulce's hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it ever since. "That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, indignantly, who is, nevertheless, a sworn friend of the graceless Jacky. "You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says Roger. "Whip him!" says Mrs.
"I maintain what I say," goes on Roger, hurriedly, fearful lest Sir Mark if he gets time, will say something to support Dulce's side of the question. "It can't be my fault. You know I am very fond of you. There have even been moments," says Mr. Dare, superbly, "when if you had asked me to lie down and let you trample on me, I should have done it!" "Then do it!" says Dulce, with decision.
"I know it," says Portia, feverishly, taking Dulce's hand and trying to draw her towards her; but the girl recoils. "Do not touch me," she says. "There is no longer any friendship between us." "Oh! Dulce, do not say that," entreats Portia, painfully. "I will say it. All is at an end as far as love between us is concerned. Fabian is part of me. I cannot separate myself from him.
"Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky Browne, with fine disgust. "Is she æsthetic?" "No." "Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously. "No." "Stupid dull impossible?" "No, no, no." "I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly. "Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring up from the sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little face.
Seeing the cavalcade, he stops short to regard them with very pardonable astonishment. "Where on earth are you all going?" he asks; "and why are Dulce's arms bare at this ungodly hour? Are you going in for housepainting, Dulce, or for murder?" "Jam," says Miss Blount proudly. "You give me relief. I breathe again," says Fabian. "Come with us," says Dulce, fondly. He hesitates.
"A vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast." TIME, as a rushing wind, slips by, and brings us Dulce's ball. The night is lovely and balmy as any evening in the Summer months gone by, though now September shakes the leaves to their fall.
Now that I am sad at heart, why will you not try to forgive?" "Yes forgive." It is Fabian who says this; he lays his hand upon Dulce's arm, and regards her earnestly. "You ask me to forgive you! You would have me be kind to this traitress!" returns she, passionately, glancing back at Portia, over her shoulder, with angry eyes. "Do you forgive her yourself?"
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.
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