"Yes, yes, of course," with fretful impatience. "It was my own doing, I wished it."
"How did it all come about?" asks he, gently.
"I don't know. He has an abominable temper, as you know; and I—well, I have an abominable temper, too," she says, with a very wintry little smile, that seems made up of angry, but remorseful tears. "And—"
"If you are going to say hard things of yourself I shall not listen," interrupts Gower, tenderly; "you and Roger have quarreled, but perhaps, when time makes you see things in a new light, you will forgive, and—"
"No, never! I am sure of that. This quarrel is for—'now and forever!'"
She repeats these last four words mechanically—words that bear but the commonest meaning to him, but are linked in her mind with associations full of bitterness.
"And you have no regrets?" regarding her keenly.
"None."
"And does no faintest spark of love for him rest in your heart? Oh, Dulce, take care!"
"Love! I never loved," she says, turning her large eyes full on his. "I have seen people who loved, and so I know. They seem to live, think, breathe for each other alone; the very air seemed full of ecstasy to them; every hour of their day was a divine joy; but I—what have I known of all that?"