"Yes, indeed, _when_?" repeats Dulce, unpleasantly.
"You remember the day Roger gave you some, don"t you, darling?" says the darling"s mamma, with the kindly intention of soothing matters.
"No, I don"t," says the uncompromising Boodie, her blue eyes wide, and her red lips apart.
"Do you mean to tell me I didn"t give you a whole box full the day before yesterday?" exclaims Mr. Dare, wrathfully, going up to the stolid child, and looking as if he would like to shake her.
"Day before yesterday?" murmurs the Boodie, with a glance so far from the present moment that it might be in Kamtschatka.
"Yes, exactly, _the day before yesterday_!" says Roger, furiously.
"How could I remember about that?" says the Boodie, most nonchalantly.
"Oh, don"t scold the poor child," says Dulce, mildly, "she won"t like it; and I am sure she is not in fault. Go away, Boodie, Roger doesn"t like being shown up."
"Shown up! Upon my _life_ I gave her those vile bon-bons," says Mr.
Dare, distractedly, "If I wanted them couldn"t I buy them? Do you suppose I go round the world stealing chocolate creams?"
At this, poor Julia getting frightened, and considering the case hopeless, rises from her seat and beats a most undignified retreat. This leaves the combatants virtually alone.
"There is hardly anything you wouldn"t do in my opinion," says Dulce, scornfully.
A pause. Then:
"What a temper you have!" exclaims Roger, with the most open contempt.
"Not so bad as yours, at all events. Your face is as white as death from badly suppressed rage."
"It is a pity you can"t see your own," says Roger slowly.
"Don"t speak to me like that, Roger," says Dulce, quickly, her eyes flashing; "and--and say at once," imperiously, "that you know perfectly well I have the temper of an angel, in comparison with yours."
"Would you have me tell a deliberate lie?" says Roger, coldly.
This brings matters to a climax. Silence follows, that lasts for a full minute (a long time in such a case), and then Dulce speaks again. Her voice is quite changed; out of it all pa.s.sion and excitement have been carefully withdrawn.
"I think it is time this most mistaken engagement of ours should come to an end," she says, quite quietly.
"That is as you wish, of course," replies he. "But fully understand me; if you break with me now, it shall be at once and forever."
"Your manner is almost a threat," she says. "It will be difficult to you, no doubt, but _please_ do try to believe it will be a very great joy to me to part from you "at once and forever.""
"Then nothing more remains to be said; only this: it will be better for you that Uncle Christopher should be told I was the one to end this engagement, not--"
"Why?" impatiently.
"On account of the will, of course. If you will say I have refused to marry you, the property will go to you."
"That you have _refused_ me!" says Miss Blount, with extreme indignation. "Certainly, I shall never say that--never! You can say with truth I have refused to marry you, but nothing else."
"It is utter insanity," says Roger, gravely. "For the sake of a ridiculous whim, you are voluntarily resigning a great deal of money."
"I would resign the mines of Golconda rather than do that. I would far rather starve than give you the satisfaction of saying you had given me up!"
As she has a very considerable fortune of her own that nothing can interfere with, she finds it naturally the very simplest thing in the world to talk lightly about starvation.
"What should I say that for?" asks Roger, rather haughtily.
"How can I tell? I only know you are longing to say it," returns she, wilfully.
"You are too silly to argue with," protests he, turning away with a shrug.
Running down the steps of the balcony, Dulce, with her wrath still burning hotly within her, goes along the garden path and so past the small bridge, and the river, and the mighty beeches that are swaying to and fro.
Turning a corner she comes suddenly upon Gower, who is still smoking cigarettes, and no doubt day-dreaming about her.
"You have escaped from everybody," he says to her, in some surprise, Dulce being a person very little given to solitude or her own society undiluted.
"It appears I have not," returns she, bitterly.
"Well, I shan"t trouble you long; I can take myself off in no time," he says, good-humoredly, drawing to one side to let her pa.s.s.
"No--no; you can stay with me if you care to," she says, wearily, ashamed of her petulance.
"_Care!_" he says, reproachfully; and then, coming nearer to her, "you are unhappy! Something has happened!" he says, quickly, "what is it?"
"Nothing unhappy," says Dulce, in a dear, soft voice; "certainly not that. Something very different; something, indeed, I have been longing and hoping for, for weeks, for months, nay, all my life, I think."
"And--" says Stephen.
"I have broken off my engagement with Roger."
A great, happy gleam awakes within his dark eyes. Instinctively he takes a step nearer to her, then checks himself, and draws his breath quickly.
"Are you sure?" he says, in a carefully calm tone, "are you _sure_ you have done wisely?--I mean, will this be for your own _good_?"
"Yes, yes, of course," with fretful impatience. "It was my own doing, I wished it."
"How did it all come about?" asks he, gently.
"I don"t know. He has an abominable temper, as you know; and I--well, I have an abominable temper, too," she says, with a very wintry little smile, that seems made up of angry, but remorseful tears. "And--"
"If you are going to say hard things of yourself I shall not listen,"
interrupts Gower, tenderly; "you and Roger have quarreled, but perhaps, when time makes you see things in a new light, you will forgive, and--"
"No, never! I am sure of that. This quarrel is for--"_now and forever!_""
She repeats these last four words mechanically--words that bear but the commonest meaning to him, but are linked in her mind with a.s.sociations full of bitterness.