Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; the tender blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between the dark green branches of the shrubs, lights blue and red and yellow gleam softly. In the distance may be heard the plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.
Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce and Mr. Gower standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, stops short, hesitates, and then, bon gre mal gre, goes up to them and makes some trivial remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one.
Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a flower she has taken from the old bowl—that looks something like an indoor Marguerite; she is plucking it slowly to pieces, and as she so mutilates it, whispers softly the incantation that will help to declare her fortune:
"Il m'aime—un peu—beaucoup—passionément—pas du tout. Il m'aime—un peu—"
The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very heart of the poor flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly in two, flutters sadly to her feet, and dies there.
"Yes—just so," she says, with a little hostile glance at Roger, distinctly seen by Gower—"and such a very little, that it need hardly count!"
"What an unsatisfactory lover," says Roger, rather satirically, returning her glance with interest. "Of whom were you thinking?"
"My dear Roger, you forget," says Miss Blount, with admirable promptitude; "how could I think of any one in that light! I have never had a lover in my life. I have only had—you!" She says this slowly, and lets her lids fall half over her eyes, that are now gleaming with undue brilliancy.
"True!" replies Dare, with maddening concurrence, stroking his mustache softly.
"Isn't Roger charming," says Dulce (her own manner deeply aggravating in its turn), tapping Gower's arm lightly and confidentially with her fan; "so honest and withal so gracious."