"Then what does your quotation mean?"
"Nothing, too, no doubt. Shall we go on with our lesson?"
"No, I am tired of it," she says, petulantly. "I like nothing, I think, for very long." She has grown somewhat restless, and her eyes are wistful. They are following Roger, who has thrown himself at Portia's feet.
"Are your friendships, too, short-lived?" asks Gower, biting his lips. You can see that he is lounging on the grass, and at this moment, having raised his hand, it falls again, by chance upon her instep.
Remorse and regret have been companions of her bosom for the past minute, now they quicken into extreme anger. Pushing back the garden chair on which she has been sitting, she stands up and confronts the stricken Gower with indignant eyes.
"Don't do that again," she says, with trembling lips. Her whole attitude—voice and expression—are undeniably childish, yet she frightens Gower nearly out of his wits.
"I beg your pardon," he stammers, eagerly, growing quite white. "I must insist on your understanding I did not mean it. How could you think it? I—"
At this instant Roger laughs. The laugh comes to Dulce as she stands before Gower grieved and angry and repentant, and her whole face changes. The grief and the repentance vanish, the very anger fades into weariness.
"Yes, I believe you—I was foolish—it doesn't matter," she says, heavily; and then she sinks into her seat again, and taking a small volume of selected poetry from a rustic table at her elbow, throws it into his lap.
"Read me something," she says, gently.