one--"I ever knew I
was fond of you until--until I lost you."

"Oh, you must not talk to me like this!" entreats she, the tears coming
into her eyes and trembling on her long lashes.

"I suppose not. But this new-found knowledge is hard to suppress; why
_did_ I not discover it all sooner?"

"Better late than never," says Dulce, with a poor attempt at lightness
and a rather artificial little laugh, meant to conceal the sorrow that
is consuming her. "I think you ought to feel gladness in the thought
that you know it at last. Knowledge is power, isn't it?"

"I can feel only sorrow," says Roger, very sadly. "And I have no power."

Dulce's wretched fingers are getting absolutely benumbed in the cold
water, yet she seems to feel nothing. Roger, however, stooping over her,
lifts the silly little hand and dries it very tenderly, and holds it
fast between both his own; doubtless only with the intention of
restoring some heat to it. It is quite amazing the length of time it
takes to do this.

"Dulce!"

"Well?" She has not looked at him even once during the last five
minutes.

"If you are unhappy in your present engagement--and I think you are--why
not break with Gower? I spoke to you of this yesterday, and I say the
same thing to-day. You are doing both him and yourself an injustice in
letting it go on any longer."

"I don't know what to say to him."

"Then get some one else to say it. Fabian, or Uncle Christopher."

"Oh, _no_!" says Dulce, with a true sense of delicacy. "If it is to be
done at all I shall do it myself."

"Then do it. Promise me if you get the opportunity you will say
something to him about it."

"I promise," says Dulce, very faintly. Then she withdraws the hand from
his, and without another word, not even a hint at what the gaining of
her freedom may mean to either--or rather both--of them, they go slowly
back to the garden, where they meet all the others sitting in a group
upon a huge circular rustic seat beneath a branching evergreen; all,
that is, except Fabian, who of late has become more and more solitary in
his habits.

As Stephen has not put in an appearance at the Court now for fully two
days, speculation is rife as to what has become of him.

"It is the oddest thing I ever knew," Julia is saying, as the cousins
come up to the rustic-seat.

"What is it?" asks Roger, idly.

"Stephen's defection. He used to be as true as the morning post, and
now--I hope he hasn't made away with hims