pride.

Not that Dulce slights him in any way, or is cold to him, or gives him
to understand, even indirectly, that she would gladly know her
engagement at an end. She is both kind and gentle--much more so than
before--but any doubt he had ever entertained about her having a real
affection for him has now become a certainty.

He had won her unfairly. He had wrought upon her feelings in an evil
hour, when her heart was torn with angry doubts and her self-love
grievously hurt; when all her woman's soul was aflame with the thought
that she was the unwelcome property of a man who would gladly be rid of
her.

Her parting with Roger, and the unexpected emotion he had then betrayed,
had opened her eyes in part, and had shown her how she had flung away
the thing she desired, to gain--naught. Even now, I think she hardly
knows how well she loves her cousin, or how well he loves her, so openly
displayed is her pleasure in his society, so glad is the smile that
welcomes him whenever he enters the room where she is, or seats himself
beside her--which is very often--or when he addresses her, which means
whenever he has anything at all to say to anybody.

At first he had fought manfully against his growing fears, but when a
week had gone by and he had had it forced upon him that the girl he
loved was every day becoming more silent and _distraite_ in his
presence, and when he had seen how she would gladly have altogether
avoided his coming if she could, he lost all heart, and, flinging up his
cards, let a bitter revengeful feeling enter and take possession of his
heart--where love, alone, before, had held full sway.

If not his--she shall at least never be Roger's. This he swears to
himself, with white lips and eyes dangerously bright.

He has her promise, and he will keep her to it. Nothing shall induce
him to release her from it; or if he has to consent to her not
fulfilling her engagement with him, it shall be _only_ on condition that
she will never marry Dare. Even should she come to him with tears in her
eyes and on her bended knees to ask him to alter this decision, she will
beg in vain. He registers a bitter vow that Roger shall not triumph
where he has failed.

He knows Dulce sufficiently well to understand that she will think a
good deal of breaking the word she gave him of her own free will, even
though she gave it in anger and to her own undoing. He can calculate to
a nicety the finer shades of remorse and self-con