"Did he—I mean did you—ever—; Dulce, will you be very angry with me if I ask you a question?"
"No. But I hope it won't be a disagreeable one," says Dulce, glancing at him cautiously.
"That is just as you may look at it," says Roger. "But I suppose I may say it—after all, we are like brother and sister are we not?"
"Ye-es. Quite like brother and sister," says Dulce, but somehow this thought seems to give her no pleasure.
"Only we are not, you know," puts in Roger, rather hastily.
"No, of course we are not," replies she, with equal haste.
"Well, then, look here—"
But even now that he has got so far, he hesitates again, looks earnestly at her, and pulls his mustache uncertainly, as if half afraid to go any further.
It is the afternoon of the next day, and as the sun has come out in great force, and the mildness of the day almost resembles Spring in its earliest stages; they are all about the place, strolling hither and thither, whithersoever pleasant fancy guides them.
Roger and Dulce, after lingering for some time in the Winter garden looking at the snowdrops, and such poor foster-babes as have thrust their pallid faces above the warm earth, that, like a cruel stepmother, has driven them too early from her breast, have moved slowly onwards until they find themselves beside a fountain that used to be a favorite haunt of theirs long ago.