"I think I must have been utterly without intellect in the old days, not to have seen then what a darling you are."
"Oh, no," says Dulce, meekly, which might mean that, in her opinion, either he is not without intellect, or she is not a darling.
"I was abominable to you then," persists Roger, with the deepest self-abasement. "I wonder you can look with patience at me now. I was a perfect bear to you!"
"Indeed you were not," says Dulce, slipping her arm round his neck. "You couldn't have been, because I am sure I loved you even then; and besides," with a little soft, coaxing smile, "I won't listen to you at all if you call my own boy bad names."
Rapture; and a prolonged pause.
"What shall we do if that wretched beggar won't relent and let me marry you?" says Roger, presently.
"Only bear it, I suppose," with profoundest resignation; it is so profound that it strikes Mr. Dare as being philosophical, and displeases him accordingly.
"You don't seem to care much," he says, in an offended tone, getting up and standing with his back to the mantelpiece, and his face turned to her, as though determined to keep an eye on her.
"I don't care?" reproachfully.
"Not to any very great extent, I think; and of course it is not to be wondered at. I'm not much, I allow, and perhaps there are others—"