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Updated: June 19, 2025
Portia, to check the sob that rises in her throat, tightens her clasp on Dulce's hand and draws the girl quickly from the room. Perhaps, too, she seeks to hide his grief from other eyes than hers.
Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something, perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's eyes. "What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so changed. He used to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very expressive.
Gower is plainly interested in a very high degree, when Roger, coming up to them, lays his hand lightly upon Dulce's shoulder. He is still passionately angry, and almost unable to control himself. To see Dulce's fingers clasped by those of Gower, however innocently, has fired his wrath, and driven him to open expression of his displeasure.
Then Portia makes him a little bow, and Julia simpers at him, and presently he finds himself accepted by and admitted to the bosom of the family, which, indeed, is a rather nondescript one. After a few moments of unavoidable hesitation, he throws himself at Dulce's feet, and, leaning on his elbow, tells himself country life, after all, isn't half a bad thing.
She looks puzzled, surprised, and a distressed look comes into her eyes. "I mean even then, did you believe him innocent?" "How can I remember?" says Portia, drawing her breath quickly. The distrust grows upon Dulce's tell-tale face. She comes a step nearer to her cousin. "No," she says, slowly her eyes are fixed attentively upon Portia "it is some time ago. But you can at least tell me this.
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.
The bare mention of these sweetmeats, fraught as they are to her with bitterest memories, awake a long slumbering grief within Dulce's breast. Fretted by her interview with Stephen; sore at heart because of the child's persistent allusion to her absent cousin, this last stab, this mention of the curious cause of their parting, quite overcomes her.
"If you only knew how unhappy it makes us," says Dicky Browne, mimicking Dulce's own manner of a moment since so exactly that they all laugh aloud; and Dulce, forgetting her chagrin, laughs, too, even more heartily than they do. "You shan't have one bit of my jam," she says, threatening Dicky with a huge silver spoon; "see if you do!
"You needn't be afraid of me," he says, apropos of Dulce's last remark. "I can speak no language but my own, and that badly." "What a comfort," says Miss Blount. She is now wondering if she has done her duty by her new guest, and if she has been everything to him that she ought to have been, considering her promise to Roger. "Where is Fabian?" she asks, suddenly, peering through the dusky gloom.
We faint, we die; show mercy and give us some tea and some cake. You're awfully hungry, Gower, aren't you?" "Well, not very," says Mr. Gower, too occupied in his contemplation of Dulce's charming face to be quite alive to what is so plainly expected of him. "Oh, nonsense! He is tremendously hungry," says Dicky Browne.
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