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Updated: June 19, 2025
Impulsively, as she asks this, she raises one of her soft, naked arms and lays it round his neck. In every action of Dulce's there is something so childlike and loving, that it appeals straight to the heart. The touch of her cool, sweet flesh, as it brushes against his cheek, sends a strange thrill through Roger a thrill hitherto unknown to him.
"Did she dance well?" asks Stephen, waking up suddenly from a lengthened examination of the unconscious Dulce's fair features. An examination, however, overseen by Roger, and bitterly resented by him. "She didn't dance at all, she only galumphed," says Dicky, wrathfully. "She regularly took the curl out of me; I was never so fatigued in my life.
"With a soul given entirely to French bonnets and Louis Quinze shoes, she would be thought ultra-mundane," says Sir Mark, who is trying to make Dulce's little toy terrier, Gilly, stand on his hind legs, in search of cake. "My goodness! what a long word," says Dicky Browne, who is now eating bread and butter, because he has finished the cake. "Does it mean anything edible?
Roger glares despairingly at Dulce, who is still trying to get some brandy down the wounded man's throat, and even as she does so Stephen's eyes unclose, and a heavy sobbing sigh escapes him. Strangely enough, as the two bend over him, and his gaze wanders from one face to the other, it rests finally, with a great sense of content, not on Dulce's face but Roger's.
But passing by Dulce's door, and finding it open, she pauses before it, and finally, after some hesitation, she crosses the threshold only to find it empty. The fire is burning brightly; a little crushed glove lies upon the hearth-rug, showing how its owner but lately had knelt before the fire, or stood near it to gaze into its depths, and call up fancied faces from its coals.
Almost forgetful of Dulce's presence, he walks away from her, and, having gained the house, goes moodily up the stairs towards his own room. Why had her soft eyes looked so reproachful a while ago? Why had she turned so quickly away from him when he had spoken those few harsh words, for which he hates himself now? Her pallor returns to him, and the fear in her large eyes.
"I wonder," says Miss Vibart, with a faint yawn, "if at times she doesn't find that a trifle slow?" Then she grows a little ashamed of herself, as she catches Dulce's quick, puzzled glance. "It is a very pretty baby," says Dulce, as though anxious to explain matters. "And what can be more adorable than a pretty baby?" responds her cousin, with a charming smile.
So glad you have come to us," he says, in a tone that reminds her of Dulce's, though it is so deep and strong and masculine, and hers so very much the reverse in every way, "Bless me, how days go by! Just last week, as it seems to me, I saw you a little girl in short petticoats and frills, and furbelows, and now "
In this last attitude, however, it is easier to see Dulce's charming face. "I should like to know that." His manner implies that he would not like to hear the opinion of the others. "It was nothing very flattering, I am afraid," said Dulce, with a little laugh. "I was to confess the truth just in the very faintest degree nervous about you." "About me!"
"And indeed I wanted nothing further but if I may smoke if I have your permission to light this," producing a cigar, "I shall feel that my end is near; I shall know that the gods love me, and that therefore I must die young." As he places the cigar between his lips he leans back again at Dulce's feet with a sigh suggestive of unutterable bliss.
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