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Updated: June 19, 2025
But just now she seems tongue-tied, unable to say one word to allay her companion's fears. A strange sense of oppression that weighs upon her breast grows heavier and more insupportable at each moment, and Dulce's great gleaming eyes of blackest gray are reading her very soul, and scorching her with their reproachful fire.
She has noticed the anger in Roger's face, and the defiance in Dulce's soft eyes, and she is grieved and sorry for them both. But, Dulce, who is in a very bad mood indeed, will take no notice of either the entreaty or the grief. "How can I?" she says, with a slow lifting of her brows. "Who will give anybody any tea, if I go away from this?
A few stray sunbeams are straggling in through the narrow windows, and are holding high festival in Dulce's bonnet; a perfect crown of glory envelops her head. The day being exceptionally warm, everything and every one is drowsy and sleepy, and a trifle inattentive. Meanwhile, the service progresses surely, if slowly.
He is not so testy as of yore, a change that fills Dulce's heart with misgivings. But the effort to do all this has aged and saddened him; and from time to time his mind wanders restlessly to the young man who left his home full of anger and indignant grief. As for Stephen, living in his "Fool's Paradise, he drinks delight," nor heeds how false is all the happiness that seems to surround him.
At this juncture, however, Sir Mark clears his throat as if to say something, and, coming forward, would probably have tried the effect of a conciliatory speech, but that Stephen, turning abruptly away from them, takes Dulce's hand in his, and leads her in silence and with a brow dark as Erebus, up the gravelled path, and past the chilly fountain, and thus out of sight.
She has, furthermore, been so amiable as to envelop Dulce in a second apron; one out of her own wardrobe, an article of the very hugest dimensions, in which Dulce's slender figure is utterly and completely lost. It comes up in a little square upon her bosom and makes her look like a delicious over-grown baby, with her sleeves tucked up and her bare arms gleaming like snow-flakes.
In vain she tries to conquer the deadness that is overpowering her, but without avail. She lifts her eyes beseechingly, and then grows literally afraid of the girl leaning over her, so intense and bitter is the hatred and scorn that mar the beauty of her usually fair, childish face. This upward, nervous glance, breaks the spell of silence, and gives voice to Dulce's wrath.
Browne had declined to stir for any pretense whatever, and has been enjoying himself to the utmost, now at Portia's feet, now at Dulce's, and, when all things fail, at Julia's. Perhaps to Fabian the days have seemed longest.
He moves his head impatiently from side to side, but gains nothing by this, as the cobweb is apparently of an affectionate disposition, and goes with him wherever he listeth. Dicky Browne is entranced. Such an interlude was more than he had hoped for. Involuntarily he lays his hand on Dulce's arm, and, giving her a mild pinch, shows her the cause of his apparent joy.
They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir, being under the impression, perhaps, that while the present incivility of the elements continues, it is cosier to be in a small room than a large one. And so as the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed has come to the mountain.
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