"Go on," says Dulce, imperiously.
"As he cares for you, then," says Stephen, recklessly.
"You have been studying us to some purpose, evidently," exclaims Dulce, turning to him with extreme bitterness. "I suppose, indeed, you are not alone in your judgment. I daresay it is apparent to the whole world that I am a matter of perfect indifference to—to—my cousin!"
"'Who runs may read,'" says Stephen with quiet determination. "Why should I lie to you? He must be blind and deaf, I think—it is not to be accounted for in any other way. Why, that other morning in the garden, you remember how he then—"
"I remember nothing," interrupts she, haughtily, turning away from him, deep offence in her eyes.
"Now you are angry with me," he says, miserably, trying to look into her averted face.
"Why should I be angry?" she says, petulantly. "Is it because you tell me Roger does not care for me? Do you think I did not know that before? It is, indeed, a question with me whether I am or am not an object of aversion to the man I have promised to marry."
"You speak very hardly," he says.
"I speak what is in my heart," says Dulce, tremulously.