Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked. Duchess

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      It has its charm, this lowered tone. Dicky gives in to it; and – metaphorically speaking – instantly prostrates himself at Miss Vibart's feet.

      Perhaps he might have done so actually without metaphor, Dicky's conduct being at times uncertain, but for a timely interruption.

      "Any chance of dinner to-night?" says a cheery old voice behind them, and turning, they see Sir Christopher standing inside the open window of the drawing room, smiling upon them with the utmost benignity. "Portia, my dear," he says, genially, as though he and she have been intimate for years, "we are all so young here, we hardly require sustenance. Nevertheless, let me take you into the dining-room, if only to see what cook has provided for us."

      Portia lays her hand upon his arm, and, followed by the others (who are plainly quarreling in a warm, if subdued fashion), goes into the grand old dining-room. Roger takes the foot of the table; Dicky seats himself next Portia; Dulce, as she always does when no foreign guests are present, or, as she terms it, on "off-days," seats herself near Uncle Christopher.

      One place, however, is empty; by right it is Roger's, who, except when Fabian is absent, never sits at the foot of the table.

      Sir Christopher fusses a little, grows discontented, and finally says uneasily —

      "Where is Fabian?"

      "He has a headache, dear," says Dulce, gently. "He hopes we will all excuse him – especially Portia."

      She turns with a sweet glance to Portia, who murmurs something civil in return.

      "He would be better here than moping in his own room," says Sir Christopher, in a low voice. His spirits are evidently damped, though he makes an effort to suppress the fact; his smile grows faded, and less frequent, and presently dies away altogether. Every one makes a noble effort at conversation, and every one, after a bit, breaks down ignominiously and looks at his or her fish, as though in it lies some hidden charm.

      Dicky Browne alone remains unimpressed by the gloom of the surroundings. He is thinking the filleted sole very good indeed, and is lost to all other ideas.

      "Tell you who I saw to-day," he says, airily, "Boer. That clergyman fellow, you know, who married that annoying girl who used to be always at Chetwoode. I spent half an hour with him in the High Street, just opposite the club."

      "How you must have enjoyed yourself!" says Roger, feelingly. "How I wish I could have put myself in your place at that moment."

      "Don't you! Not being selfish, I would willingly have resigned to you the intellectual treat I endured! All things have their end, however, even my patience, which is known to be elastic like my conscience; so, as a last resource, I offered him a brandy and soda, and, as it turned out, it was quite the best thing I could have done under the circumstances. He looked awfully angry, and went away directly."

      "Clever boy!" says Roger. "For the future I shall know exactly what to do when the reverend Boer inflicts his small talk on me. Dead sell, though, if he accepted your offer. One would have to sit it out with him, and, probably, he takes his brandy slowly."

      "I don't believe he ever took any in his life," says Dulce, idly. "That is why the chill has never been removed from him. How I wish he could be thawed."

      "I always feel so sorry for Florence," says Portia, languidly; she is feeling very tired, and is hardly eating anything. From time to time she looks at Sir Christopher, and wonders vaguely if it is her presence has kept Fabian from dinner to-night. "But Mr. Boer reads very well."

      "When he doesn't turn over two pages at once," says Dicky Browne. "That is a favorite amusement of his, and it rather makes a mess of the meaning contained in holy writ. He is rather touchy about that last little fiasco of his when reading before the bishop the other day, so I thought I would tell him a story to-day that chimed in deliciously with his own little mistake, and, I doubt not, brought it fresh to his mind."

      "What a wicked humor you must have been in," says Portia. "Tell the story to us now."

      "You have heard it, I daresay. I only repeated it to Boer in the fond hope he would go away if I did, but it failed me. It was about the fellow who was reading the morning lesson – and he came to the words, 'and he took unto him a wife' – then he turned over two pages by mistake, and went on, 'and he pitched her with pitch within and without!' I don't think Boer liked my little story, but still he wouldn't go away."

      "He is a dreadfully prosy person, and very material," says Portia, when they have all laughed a little.

      "He is a jolly nuisance," says Mr. Browne.

      "He hasn't got much soul, if you mean that," says Roger —

      "'A primrose by a river's brim,

      A yellow primrose is to him

      And it is nothing more.'"

      "That is such utter nonsense," says Dulce, tilting her pretty nose and casting a slighting glance at her fiancé from eyes that are

      "The greenest of things blue,

      The bluest of things gray."

      "What more would it be? – a hollyhock, perhaps? or a rhododendron, eh?"

      "Anything you like," says Roger, calmly, which rather finishes the discussion.

      The night belongs to warm, lovable June; all the windows are wide open; the perfume of flowers comes to them from the gardens beneath, that are flooded with yellow moonshine. So still it is, so calm, that one can almost hear the love-song the languid breeze is whispering to the swaying boughs.

      Across the table come the dreamy sighs of night, and sink into Portia's heart, as she sits silent, pleased, listening to all around, yet a little grieved in that her host is strangely silent, too, and looks as one might who is striving to hear the sound of a distant footstep, that comes not ever.

      "He is always that way when Fabian absents himself," says Dicky Browne, with so little preface that Portia starts. "He adores the ground he walks on, and all that sort of thing. Speak to him and get him out of it."

      "What shall I say?" asks Miss Vibart, somewhat taken aback. "Moods are so difficult."

      "Anything likely to please him."

      "My difficulty just lies there," says Portia.

      "Then do something, if you can't say it. Exertion, I know, is unpleasant, especially in June, but one must sacrifice one's self sometimes," says Dicky Browne. "He'll be awfully bad presently if he isn't brought up pretty short by somebody during the next minute or so."

      "But what can I do?" says Portia, who is rather impressed by Mr. Browne's earnestness.

      "You hate port, don't you?" asks he, mysteriously.

      "Yes. But what has that got to do with it?"

      "Take some presently. It is poison, and will make you dreadfully ill; but that don't count when duty calls. We all hate it, but he likes it, and will feel positively benevolent if you will only say you like it too. 'Pride in his port, defiance in his eye!' – that line, I am convinced, was written for him alone, but modern readers have put a false construction upon it."

      "It will make me so unhappy," says Portia, looking at Uncle Christopher with a pitying eye. The pity is for him, not for herself, as Dicky foolishly imagines.

      "Don't СКАЧАТЬ