"Are you anything easier now?" he asks, raising Stephen's head ever so gently. Dulce, feeling her presence has been thoroughly ignored, and fearing lest the very sight of her may irritate her late lover, draws back a little, and stands where he can no longer see her.
"Try to drink this," says Roger, holding the flask again to Gower's lips and forcing a few drops between them. They are of some use, as presently a slight, a very slight tinge of red comes into his cheek, and his eyes show more animation.
"It is very good of you, old man," he whispers, faintly, looking up at Roger. "I believe you are sorry for me, after all."
The "after all" is full of meaning.
"Why shouldn't I be sorry for you?" says Roger, huskily, his eyes full of tears. "Don't talk like that."
"I know you think I behaved badly to you," goes on Stephen, with painful slowness. "And perhaps I did."
"As to that," interrupted Roger, quickly, "we're quits there, you know; nothing need be said about that. Why can't we forget it? Come, Stephen, forget it all, and be friends again."
"With all my heart," says Gower, and his eyes grow glad, and a smile of real happiness illumines his features for a moment.
"Now, don't talk any more; don't, there's a good fellow," says Roger, with deep entreaty.
"There is—one thing—I must say," whispers Gower, "while I have time. Tell her—that I have behaved like a coward to her, and that I give her back her promise. Tell her she may marry whom she pleases." He gasps for breath, and then, pressing Roger's hand with his own uninjured one, says, with a last effort, "And that will be you, I hope."