out of it as he should. He is in that stage when to pile up
the agony becomes a melancholy satisfaction, and when the possibility of
comfort in any form takes the shape of a deliberate insult.

"Did you ever once think of me all the time I was away?" he asks,
presently, in a low tone that distinctly gives her to understand he
believes she didn't. That in fact he would--in in his present frame of
mind--_rather_ believe she didn't. His voice is growing absolutely
tragic, and, altogether, he is as deplorably unhappy as any young woman
could desire.

"I wish," says poor Dulce, her voice quivering, "that you would not
speak to me like this now, or--or that you had spoken like it long ago!"

"I wish I had, with all my soul," says Roger, fervently. "However," with
a heavy sigh, "you are engaged to _him_ now, you know, so I suppose
there is no use in talking about it."

"If I do know it, why tell me again about it?" says Dulce reproachfully,
her eyes full of tears. "Just like you to remind me--of--my
_misfortune_!"

It is out. She has been dying to tell him for the last half-hour of this
trouble that has been pressing upon her for months, of this most
distasteful engagement, and now that she has told him, though
frightened, yet she would hardly recall her words. Her lashes linger on
her cheeks, and she looks very much as if she would like to cry but for
the disgrace of the thing.

"Your misfortune!" repeats Roger, in a strange tone. "Are you not happy,
then?"

He has risen to his feet in his surprise and agitation, and is looking
down on her as she sits trembling before him, her hands tightly clasped
together.

"Do you mean to tell me he is not good to you?" asks Roger, seeing she
either cannot or will not speak.

"He is too good to me; you must not think that," exclaims she,
earnestly. "It is only--that I don't care about his goodness--I don't
care," desperately, "for anything connected with him."

"You have made a second mistake, then?"

"Not a _second_," in a very low tone.

"Then let us say, you have again changed your mind?"

"No."

"You liked him once?" impatiently.

"No."

"You might as well say you _did_ like me," says Roger, with angry
warmth; "and I know I was actually abhorrent in your sight."

"Oh, no, _no_," says Dulce for the third time, in a tone so low now that
he can hardly hear it; yet he does.

"Dulce! do you know what you are implying?" asks he, in deep agitation.
"It is one of two t