"If you have forgotten how to write, Dulce," he says in a low, strained voice, "I daresay it will be possible to find a master to re-instruct you. In the meantime, why trouble Gower?"
"Does it trouble you, Mr. Gower?" asks she, sweetly, looking straight at Stephen and ignoring Roger.
"Need I answer that?" responds he, flushing warmly, and in his turn ignoring Dare.
"Then you need not worry yourself to get me a master, Roger," says Dulce, still quite sweetly. "It is very good of you to wish to take such trouble about me, but you see I have got one already."
"Not a master—a slave!" says Gower, impulsively. There's such evident and earnest meaning in his tone that she colors violently, and, with a rather open manifestation of shrinking, withdraws her hand from his clasp; the pencil falls to the ground, but Roger has turned aside, and this last act on her part is unseen by him.
"Is anything the matter with Roger?" says Gower, slowly.
"What should be the matter with him?" asks she, coldly.
"Do you remember what we were reading yesterday? Do you remember even one particular line? It comes to me now. 'So loving jealous.' You recollect?"
"No; and even if I did, what has it to do with Roger?"
"Nothing—perhaps." There is a small fine smile around his lips that incenses her, she scarcely knows why.