"And a wind blows,
With unknown freshness over lands and seas."
Something in the silence and majesty of the hour, and something, perhaps, within her own heart, brings the unbidden tears to Dulce's eyes.
"What can be the matter with Roger?" asks Stephen, presently, in a low tone. "We used to be such good friends, long ago. I never saw anyone so changed. He used to be a genial sort of fellow." The emphasis is very expressive.
"Used he?" says Dulce, in a somewhat expressionless tone.
"Yes; a right down good sort."
"Is he so very bad now?" says Dulce, deliberately and dishonestly ignorant.
"To you—yes."
There is a pause.
"I think I hardly understand you," she says, in a tone that should have warned him to be silent.
"Have you forgotten the scene of a moment since?" he asks her, eagerly. "His voice, his glance, his whole manner were unbearable; you bore it like an angel—but—why should you bear anything? Why should you trouble yourself about him at all? Why not show that you care as little for him as he cares for—"