Silence.
Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little reflection grows very repentant.
Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still rests on the arm of her chair, and says, softly:
"I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite mean it. Tell me again what you want me to do about your friend."
"It was only a little matter," says Roger, in a low tone, "and it was, I think, the first favor I ever asked of you; and I thought, perhaps—"
He pauses. And raising himself from his lounging position, on her chair, moves as though he would go away from her, having abandoned all hope of having his request acceded to.
But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and so she detains him.
"What is it now?" he asks, coldly, trying to keep up his dignity, but as his glance meets hers, he melts. And, in truth, just now she could have thawed a much harder heart, for on her mignon face sits one of her very loveliest smiles, conjured up for Roger's special benefit.
"Don't go away," she entreats, prettily, "and listen to me. I shall be charming to your friend. I shall devote myself exclusively to him if it will please you; and if only to prove to you that I can grant you a favor."
"Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards her meditatively for a moment, and then says, slowly: