was all a mistake," says Dulce, who is now very pale, "But we are so unaccustomed to even the faintest doubt of Fabian. Even Mark Gore, the sceptic, believes in him. How tired you look; would you like another cushion to your back?"
"No, thank you. I am quite comfortable and quite happy. Do you know," with a slow, lovely smile, "I rather mean that last conventional phrase: I am happy; I feel at rest. I know I shall feel no want here in this delicious old place – with you!" This is prettily toned, and Dulce smiles again. "I am so tired of town and its ways."
"You will miss your season, however," says Dulce, regretfully – for her.
"Yes, isn't that a comfort?" says her cousin, with a devout sigh of deepest thankfulness.
"A comfort!"
"Yes. I am not strong enough to go about much, and Auntie Maud has that sort of thing on the brain. She is like the brook – she goes on for ever, nothing stops her. Ah! See now, for example, who are those coming across the lawn? Is one your brother?"
"No! It is only Dicky Browne and – "
"Your Roger?"
"Oh! yes; my Roger," repeats Dulce, with a distasteful shrug.
Then she leans over the balcony, and says:
"Roger, come up here directly; for once in your life you are wanted by somebody. And you are to come, too, Dicky, and please put on your Sunday manners, both you boys, because I am going to introduce you to Portia!"
CHAPTER III
"Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining." – W. Pitt.
The boys, as Miss Blount – that is Dulce – irreverently terms them, are coming slowly across the grass, trampling the patient daisies. The sun has "dropped down" and the "day is dead," and twilight, coming up, is covering all the land. A sort of subtle sadness lies on everything, except "the boys," they are evidently full of the enjoyment of some joke, and are gay with smiles.
Mr. Browne is especially glad, which convinces his pretty cousin on the balcony that he has been the perpetrator of the "good thing" just recorded. At her voice, both he and his companion start, and Roger, raising his eyes, meets hers.
He is a tall, slight young man, handsome, indolent, with dark eyes, and a dark moustache, and a very expressive mouth.
Dicky is distinctly different, and perhaps more difficult of description. If I say he is a little short, and a little stout, and a little – a very little – good looking, will you understand him? At least he is beaming with bonhommie, and that goes a long way with most people.
He seems now rather taken by Dulce's speech, and says:
"No! Has she really come?" in a loud voice, that is cheery and comfortable to the last degree. He can't see Portia, as she is sitting down, and is quite hidden from view by the trailing roses. "Is she 'all your fancy painted her?' is she 'lovely and divine?'" goes on Mr. Browne, gaily, as though seeking information.
"Beauties are always overrated," says Roger, sententiously, in an even louder voice – indeed, at the very top of his strong young lungs – "just tell somebody that somebody else thinks so-and-so fit to pose as a Venus, and the thing is done, and so-and-so becomes a beauty on the spot! I say, Dulce, I bet you anything she is as ordinary as you please, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot!"
"I can't follow up that bet," says Dulce, who has changed her position so as effectually to conceal Portia from view, and who is evidently deriving intense joy from the situation, "because I have only seen her face and her hands; and they, to say the least, are passable!"
"Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky Browne, with fine disgust. "Is she æsthetic?"
"No."
"Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously.
"No."
"Stupid – dull – impossible?"
"No, no, no."
"I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly.
"Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring up from the sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little face.
"She has two eyes, and a very remarkable nose," says Miss Blount, with a nod.
"Celestial or Roman?" demands Roger, lazily. By this time he and Dicky are mounting the stone steps of the balcony, and discovery is imminent.
"I think it is a little unfair," murmurs Portia, in a low whisper, who is, however, consumed with laughter.
At this moment they reach the balcony, and Dulce says, blandly, àpropos of Roger's last remark, "Perhaps if you ask her that question, as she is here, she will answer you herself!"
She waves her hand towards Portia. Portia rises and comes a step forward, all her soft draperies making a soft frou-frou upon the stone flooring; and then there is a good deal of consternation! and a tableau generally.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," says Roger, when breath returns to him, casting an annihilating glance at Dulce, who catches it deftly, plays with it for a moment, and then flings it carelessly over the balcony into the rising mist and night.
"Whatever you beg you shall have," says Portia, coming nearer to him and holding out a slim white hand. "How d'ye do, Roger?"
"It is quite too good of you to forgive me so soon," says that young man, pressing with deep gratitude the slim, friendly hand. "It was beastly mean of Dulce, she might have told us" – this with another glance, meant to wither, at that mischievous maiden, who rather revels in her guilt. "My only apology is that I didn't know you – had never seen you, or I could not so have expressed myself."
"What a clever apology," murmurs Portia. "And what flattering emphasis!" She smiles at him pleasantly through the fast gathering gloom. "You will now introduce me to your friend, will you not?"
"Dicky, come forward and make your best bow," says Dulce. Whereupon, Mr. Browne, with a shamefaced laugh, comes to the front, and, standing before Miss Vibart like a criminal at the bar of justice, bends very low.
"Miss Vibart – Mr. Browne," says Roger, seriously. But at this Dicky forgets himself, and throws dignity to the winds.
"She called you Roger! I'm as much her cousin as ever you were!" he says, indignantly. "Mr. Browne, indeed!"
At this, both girls laugh merrily, and so, after a bit, does Dicky himself, to whose soul the mildest mirth is an everlasting joy.
"I am then to call you Dicky?" asks Portia, smiling, and lifting her eyes as though half-reluctantly to his; she has quite entered into the spirit of the thing.
"If you will be so very good," says Dicky Browne.
"You really had better," says Dulce, "because you are likely to see a good deal of him, and perpetually addressing people by their proper names is so tiring."
"It is true," says Portia; then turning to Dicky Browne, with half-closed lids and a subdued smile, she says, slowly:
"I am
