"I didn't mean that you should—should—I didn't, in the least, that you should be a bit civiller to Gower, or any one, than you are now," says Roger, hastily, greatly shocked at the construction she has put upon his words, and rather puzzled for language in which to explain himself more clearly. At this the cloud disappears from her pretty face, and she bestows a smile upon him that at once restores him to equanimity.
"I can't say I think much of Gower as a lover," he says, after a while, a touch of scorn in his voice. "To be engaged to you for three whole months, and never once to kiss you."
"You were engaged to me for three whole years," replies his cousin, quietly, yet with a flash from her deep gray eyes that means much, "and I cannot remember that you ever cared to kiss me at all."
This is a home-thrust.
"I don't know what was the matter with me then," he says, making no attempt at denial, though there certainly were one or two occasions he might have referred to; "I don't believe"—in a low tone—"I ever knew I was fond of you until—until I lost you."
"Oh, you must not talk to me like this!" entreats she, the tears coming into her eyes and trembling on her long lashes.
"I suppose not. But this new-found knowledge is hard to suppress; why did I not discover it all sooner?"
"Better late than never," says Dulce, with a poor attempt at lightness and a rather artificial little laugh, meant to conceal the sorrow that is consuming her. "I think you ought to feel gladness in the thought that you know it at last. Knowledge is power, isn't it?"
"I can feel only sorrow," says Roger, very sadly. "And I have no power."
Dulce's wretched fingers are getting absolutely benumbed in the cold water, yet she seems to feel nothing. Roger, however, stooping over her, lifts the silly little hand and dries it very tenderly, and holds it fast between both his own; doubtless only with the intention of restoring some heat to it. It is quite amazing the length of time it takes to do this.