"A compliment from you is, indeed, worth having," says Roger, who is in a dreadful temper; "but a truce to them now. By-the-by, were you really thinking of me just now when you plucked that unoffending flower to pieces? I can hardly bring myself to believe it."
"If not of you, of whom should I be thinking?" retorts she, calmly but defiantly.
"Well—Gower, for example," says Roger, with a sneering laugh, and unpardonable bad taste. "He looks as though he could do a lover's part at a moment's notice, and without the slightest effort."
As he makes this objectionable little speech, he turns on his heel and leaves them.
Dulce, crimson, and with her breath coming somewhat quickly, still lets her eyes meet Gower's bravely.
"I must ask you to excuse my cousin," she says, quietly. "How warm the rooms are; is there no air anywhere, I wonder?"
"On the balcony there is," says Gower, gently. "Shall we go there for a minute or two?"
She lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him through the lighted, heavily-perfumed rooms on to the balcony, where the cool air is blowing, and where the fresh scent from the waving pines makes itself felt.
The moon is sailing in all its grandeur overhead. Below, the world is white with its glory. The music of many rivulets, as they rush sleepless to the river, sounds sweeter far than even the strains of the band within.
It is past midnight. The stars are growing pale. Already the "world's heart" begins to throb,