Dulce, seating herself upon the stone-work that surrounds it, though the water is too chilly to be pleasant, still toys lightly with it with her idle fingers, just tipping it coquettishly now and then, with her eyes bent thoughtfully upon as it sways calmly to and fro beneath the touch of the cold wind that passes over it.
Just now she raises her eyes and fixes them inquiringly on Roger.
"Go on," she says, quietly. "You were surely going to ask me something. Are you afraid of me?"
"A little, I confess."
"You need not." She is still looking at him very earnestly.
"Well, then," says Roger, as though nerving himself for a struggle—"tell me this." He leaves where he is standing and comes closer to her. "Did—did you ever kiss Gower?"
"Never—never!" answers Dulce, growing quite pale.
"I have no right to ask it, I know that," says Roger. "But," desperately, "did he ever kiss you?"
"Never, indeed."
"Honor bright?"