"I think Stephen such a dear fellow," says Julia, at this critical juncture. "So—er—well read, and that."
"Yes; though, I think, I have known better," says Sir Mark, looking at Dulce.
"Poor Mr. Gower," says that young lady, airily; "everyone seems determined to decry him. What has he done to everybody, and why should comparisons be drawn? There may be better people, and there may be worse; but—I like him."
"Lucky he," says Roger, with a faint but distinct sneer, his temper forsaking him; "I could almost wish that I were he."
"I could almost wish it, too," says Dulce, with cruel frankness.
"Thank you." Roger, by this time, is in a very respectable passion, though nobody but he and Dulce have heard the last three sentences. "Perhaps," he says, deliberately, "it will be my most generous course to resign in favor of—"
"More tea, Portia?" interrupts Dulce, very quickly, in a tone that trembles ever so slightly.
"No, thank you. But, Dulce, I want you near me. Come and sit here."
There is anxiety, mixed with entreaty, in her tone. 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.