Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess

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      "Oh yes, we know," interrupts Roger, most unfeelingly.

      "Well, in the early dawn," continues Dicky, quite unmoved, "when the little birds were singing, I used to think I could be happy as General Sir Richard Browne, at the head of a gallant corps, with a few darkies in the foreground fleeing before my trusty blade. By breakfast time, however, all that would be changed, and I would glory in the belief that one day would see me seated on the wool-sack. By dinnertime I was clothed in sanctimonious lawn; and long before the small hours, I felt myself a second Drake, starting to conquer another Armada, only one even more Invincible."

      They all laugh at him. And then he laughs at himself, and seems, indeed, to enjoy the joke even more than they do.

      "I don't care," he says, at length, valiantly; "no, not a single screw. I haven't done anything, you know."

      "Oh yes, you have, a lot in your time," murmurs Roger, supportingly.

      "But I must come in for the title and the estate when the old boy, my cousin, 'shuffles off this mortal coil,' and in the meantime the governor stands to me decently enough, and I'm pretty jolly all round."

      "Tell us about Stephen Gower," says Dulce, after a pause, "He interests me, I don't know why. What is he like?"

      "He is

      'A greenery yallery

      Grosvenor gallery

      Foot-in-the-grave young man.'"

      quotes Dicky, gaily.

      "An æsthetic! Oh! I do hope not," exclaims Dulce, in a horrified tone.

      "Have they pursued me even down here?" asks Portia, faintly. "I thought, I hoped, they were plants indigenous to London soil alone."

      "He is nothing of the sort," says Roger, indignantly. "He is about the best fellow I know. He would be ashamed to go round (like those idiots you speak of) with flowers and flowing locks. He leaves all that sort of thing" – contemptuously – "to girls."

      "Who is talking of Stephen Gower?" asks Sir Mark, coming towards them over the path of moonlight that lies upon the smooth lawn. "Happy man to be discussed by so fair a trio, 'beneath the sweet-smelling starlight,' as James has it."

      "Bless me," says Dicky, "I had no idea dry monopole would have had such an effect on Gore. He is talking poetry, I think; I never could understand it myself. Now for example, about those stars —do they smell? I never noticed it. What's it like, Gore?"

      Everyone disdains to take notice of this sally – all, that is, except Dulce, who is always only too delighted to laugh whenever the barest chance of being able to do so presents itself.

      Roger, crossing over to where she sits, leans his arms on the back of her chair, and bends his face to hers.

      "Look here," he says, in the conciliatory tone of one who is going to make a request and is not quite sure it will be granted. "If Gower comes down by-and-by, I wish you would promise me to be good to him. He is a very old chum of mine, and a very good fellow, and – be civil to him, will you?"

      "What do you suppose I am going to do to him?" asks Miss Blount, opening her eyes. "Was I bad to him at luncheon? Are you afraid I shall bite him? I shan't. You may be happy about that."

      "Of course – I know; but I want you to be particularly nice to him," goes on Roger, though faintly discouraged by her tone. (Now what did he mean by saying she wouldn't bite him. It sounds as if she would bite me!) "He is the oldest friend I have; and – er – as we are to be married some time or other, I want him to like you very much."

      "Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It sounded like it," says Dulce, wilfully.

      "I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little gravely.

      "Well, what is it you want me to do?" asks she, moving restlessly in her seat. She is, in spite of herself, disturbed by his gravity. "Am I to make love to him, or am I to let him make love to me? Your devotion to this old friend is quite touching."

      "He would be very unlikely indeed to make love to you," replies Roger, rather stiffly. "He understands perfectly how matters are between you and me."

      "Oh, no doubt," says Miss Blount, disgustedly. "Everyone seems to know all about this absurd engagement. I can't think how I was ever brought to consent to it."

      "Absurd!" says Mr. Dare, in an impossible tone.

      "Yes, painfully absurd! Quite too ridiculous," with unpleasant force.

      "Oh!" says Mr. Dare.

      "Yes," says Dulce, still defiant, though a little ashamed of herself, "it is quite enough to make people hate people, all this perpetual gossip."

      "You are at least honest," he says, bitterly.

      Silence.

      Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little reflection grows very repentant.

      Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still rests on the arm of her chair, and says, softly:

      "I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite mean it. Tell me again what you want me to do about your friend."

      "It was only a little matter," says Roger, in a low tone, "and it was, I think, the first favor I ever asked of you; and I thought, perhaps – "

      He pauses. And raising himself from his lounging position, on her chair, moves as though he would go away from her, having abandoned all hope of having his request acceded to.

      But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and so she detains him.

      "What is it now?" he asks, coldly, trying to keep up his dignity, but as his glance meets hers, he melts. And, in truth, just now she could have thawed a much harder heart, for on her mignon face sits one of her very loveliest smiles, conjured up for Roger's special benefit.

      "Don't go away," she entreats, prettily, "and listen to me. I shall be charming to your friend. I shall devote myself exclusively to him if it will please you; and if only to prove to you that I can grant you a favor."

      "Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards her meditatively for a moment, and then says, slowly:

      "Don't be too kind to him."

      "Could I?" says Dulce, naively.

      He laughs a little, and, bending his head, presses his lips to the little slender hand that still rests within his own.

      The caress is so unusual that Dulce glances at him curiously from under her long lashes. A faint, pink glow creeps into her cheeks. She is surprised; perhaps, too, a little pleased, because once again this evening she bestows upon him a smile, soft and radiant.

      Mr. Browne is rambling on in some incoherent fashion to Julia Beaufort. Sir Mark is telling Portia some quaint little stories. Fabian is silently listening to them stretched at Portia's feet.

      The last glimpse of day has gone. "Death's twin sister, Sleep," has fallen upon the earth. One by one the sweet stars come out in the dusky vault above, "spirit-like, infinite."

      In amongst СКАЧАТЬ