"It 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 very pleased to make your acquaintance."
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 think about that," he says, valiantly. "Petty inconveniences sink into nothingness when love points the way. Take your port, and try to look as if you liked it, and always remember, 'Virtue is its own reward!'"
"A very poor one, as a rule," says Portia.
"Have some strawberries, Portia?" asks Roger at this moment, who has been sparring with Dulce, mildly, but firmly, all this time.
"Thank you," says Portia.
"They don't go well with port, and Portia adores port," says Mr. Browne, hospitably, smiling blandly at her as he speaks.
She returns his smile with one of deep reproach.
"Eh? No, do you really?" asks Sir Christopher, waking as if by magic from his distasteful reverie. "Then, my dear, I can recommend this. Very old. Very fruity. Just what your poor father used to like."
"Yes – your poor father," says Dicky Browne sotto voce, feelingly and in a tone rich with delicate encouragement.
"Thank you. Half a glass please. I – I never take more," say Portia, hastily but sweetly, to Sir Christopher, who is bent on giving her a goodly share of what he believes to be her heart's desire. Then she drinks it to please him, and smiles faintly behind her fan and tells herself Dicky Browne is the very oddest boy she has ever met in her life, and amusing, if a little troublesome.
Sir Christopher once roused, chatters on ceaselessly about the old days when he and Charles Vibart, her father, were boys together, and before pretty Clara Blount fell in love with Vibart and married him. And Portia listens dreamily, and gazing through the open window lets part of the music of the scene outside sink into his ancient tales, and feels a great longing rise within her to get up and go out into the mystic moonbeams, and bathe her tired hands and forehead in their cool rays.
Dulce and Roger are, as usual, quarreling in a deadly, if carefully-subdued fashion. Dicky Browne, as usual, too, is eating anything and everything that comes within his reach, and is apparently supremely happy. At this moment Portia's longing having mastered her, she turns to Dulce and asks softly:
"What is that faint streak of white I see out there, through, and beyond, the branches?"
"Our lake," says Dulce, half turning her head in its direction.
"Our pond," says Roger, calmly.
"Our lake," repeats Dulcinea, firmly; at which Portia, feeling war to be once more imminent, says hastily —
"It looks quite lovely from this – so faint, so silvery."
"It shows charmingly when the moon is up, through that tangled mass of roses, far down there," says Dulce, with a gesture toward the tangle.
"I should like to go to it," says Portia, with unusual animation.
"So you shall, to-morrow."
"The moon will not be there to-morrow. I want to go now."
"Then so you shall," says Dulce, rising; "have you had enough strawberries? Yes? Will you not finish your wine? No? Come with me, then, and the boys may follow us when they can tear themselves away from their claret!" This, with a scornful glance at Roger, who returns it generously.
"I shall find it very easy to tear myself away to-night," he says, bent on revenge, and smiling tenderly at Portia.
"So!" says Dulce, with a shrug and a light laugh that reduces his attempt at scorn to a puerile effort unworthy of notice; "a compliment to you Portia; and – the other thing to me. We thank you, Roger. Come." She lays her hand on Portia's, and draws her toward the window. Passing by Uncle Christopher's chair, she lets her fingers fall upon his shoulder, and wander across it, so as just to touch his neck, with a caressing movement. Then she steps out on the verandah, followed by Portia, and both girls running down the stone steps are soon lost to sight among the flowers.
CHAPTER IV
"'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not
Remember what I would or what were well.
Memory plays tyrant with me, by a wand
I cannot master!"
– G. Mellen.
Past the roses, past the fragrant mignonette they go, the moon's soft radiance rendering still more fair the whiteness of their rounded arms.
The dew lies heavy on leaf and flower. Motionless stand the roses, and the drooping lilies, and the pansies, purple and yellow. "God Almighty," says Bacon, "first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man!"
Here, now, in this particular garden, where all is so deeply tranquil, it seems as if life itself is at a standstill, and sin and suffering, joy and ambition, are alike unknown. A "pure pleasure" it is indeed to gaze upon it, and a great refreshment to any soul tired, or overwrought, or sorrowful.
The stars are coming out slowly one by one, studding brilliantly the pale, blue vault of heaven, while from a
"Thin fleecy cloud,
Like a fair virgin veil'd, the moon looks out
With such serene and sweet benignity
That night unknits his gloomy brows and smiles."
Dulce, plucking some pale blossom, lifts it to her lips, and kisses it lightly. Portia, drawing a deep breath of intensest satisfaction, stands quite still, and letting her clasped hands fall loosely before her, contemplates the perfect scene in mute delight.
Presently, however, she shivers, a passing breeze has cast a chill upon her.
"Ah! you are cold," says Dulce, anxiously; "how thoughtless I am; yes, you are quite pale."
"Am I?" says Portia. "It was the standing here, I fancy. India gave me bad habits, that, after three years, I find myself unable to conquer. Every silly little wind strikes a chill to my heart."
"I shall get you a shawl in no time," says Dulcinea; "but keep walking up and down while I am away, so as to keep your blood warm."
"Your command shall be obeyed," says Portia, smiling, and then Dulce, turning, disappears quickly amongst the shadows, moving as swiftly as her light young feet can carry her.
Portia, left alone, prepares to keep her promise, and walks slowly along the graveled path once more. Turning a corner, again a glimpse of the distant lake comes to her. It is entrancing; calm as sleep, and pure as the moon above, whose image lies upon its breast.
Even as she looks the image fades – the "fleecy cloud" (jealous, perhaps, of the beauty of the divine Artemis, and of Portia's open admiration of her) has floated over her again, and driven her, for a little moment, into positive obscurity.
The path grows dark, the lake loses its color. Portia, with a sigh, moves on, confessing to herself the mutability of all things, and pushing aside some low-lying branches of a heavily-scented shrub, finds herself face to face with a tall young man, who, apparently, is as lost in wonder at her appearance as she is at his!
She starts, perceptibly, and, only half-suppressing a faint exclamation of fear, shrinks backwards.
"I beg your pardon," says the stranger, hastily. "I am afraid I have frightened you. But, really, it was all the fault of the moon."
His voice is reassuring, and Portia, drawing her breath more freely, feels just a little ashamed of her momentary terror.
"I am not frightened now," she says, with an upward glance, trying to read, through the darkness, the face of him she addresses. The clouds are scurrying swiftly across the sky, and now the moon shines forth again triumphant, and all things grow clearer. She can see that he is tall, dark, handsome, with a strange expression round his mouth that is surely more acquired than natural, as it does not suit his other features at all, and may be termed hard and reckless, and almost defiant. His jaw is exquisitely turned. In his eyes is a settled melancholy – altogether his face betrays strong emotions, severely repressed, and is half-morbid and wholly sad, and, when all is said, more attractive than forbidding.
Portia, gazing at him with interest, tells herself that years of mental suffering could alone have produced the hard lines round the lips and the weariness in the eyes. She has no time for further speculation, however, and goes on quickly: "It was more than foolish of me; but I quite forgot, I" – with some uncertainty – "should have remembered."
"What do you forget? and what should you have remembered?"
"I forgot that burglars do not, as a rule, I suppose, go about in evening clothes; and I should have remembered" – with a smile – "that there was yet another cousin to whom I had not been introduced."
"Yes; I am Fabian Blount," he says indifferently. He does not return her smile. Almost he gives her the impression that at this moment he would gladly have substituted another name for his own.
"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner.
"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he says this, and now he does smile, but disagreeably.
Portia colors faintly.
"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia."
"What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar behind his back all this time; now remembering it, he looks at it, and flings it far from him. "It reminds one of many things; Shakespeare, I suppose principally. I hope," looking at her, "you will choose the right casket."
"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish."
"How does it happen that you are here all alone?"
"I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I think, and ran to get a shawl or some covering for me. That is all."
"She is a long time getting it, is she not?"
"Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a little. "Does it seem long?"
"Very long, if one is to shiver all the time," replies he, calmly, reading her resentment in her face, but taking no notice of it. "Much too long to be out in this chilly night-air without sufficient clothing, and with a wholesome dread of possible burglars full upon you. May I stay with you till Dulce returns, and will you walk on a little? It is foolish to stand still."
"I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I am sure you want it now."
"I don't believe I ever want anything," says Fabian, slowly; and then they walk on again, returning by the way she had come. The night-wallflower is flinging its perfume abroad, the seringas are making sweet the air, a light eager wind rushes softly past them.
"It was a long drive," says Fabian, presently, with all the air of a man who is determined to rouse himself – however against his will – and carry on conversation of some sort. "Are you tired?"
"It was long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so sweet, that I have forgotten to be tired."
"You are one of those, perhaps, who always find variety charming." As he speaks he carefully removes a drooping branch of roses out of her way.
"Not quite always." She smiles as she defends herself. "I like old friends, and old songs best. I am not absolutely fickle. But I have always had a great desire to live in the country."
"People who have never tried it, always do have that desire."
"You think I shall be desillusionne in a week? But I shall not. When George had to return to India, I was so unhappy in the thought that perhaps I should have to live in town until his return. Of course I could have gone somewhere to live by myself, and could have found some charming old lady to take care of me, but I am not fond of my own society, and I can't bear charming old ladies."
"One feels quite sorry for the old ladies," says Fabian, absently.
"I was afraid I should have to put in my two years of waiting for George, with Auntie Maud, and that would have been terrible. It would mean seasons, and months at fashionable watering-places, which would be only town out of town – the same thing all over again. I was so glad when Uncle Christopher wrote to say he would like me to come here. I have often wondered since," she says, suddenly – smiling somewhat wistfully, and flushing a warm crimson, – "whether all of you didn't look upon my coming with disfavor."
"What put such a thought as that into your head?"
"A very natural one I think. A stranger coming to a household always makes such a difference; and you had never met me, and you might not like me, and – . Did any of you resent my coming?"
"No," says Fabian. There is no energy in his reply, yet it is impossible to doubt that he means exactly what he says. "You must not begin by thinking unkindly of us," he goes on, gently. "You may believe me when I say none of us felt anything but pleasure at the idea of your coming."
"Yes? That was very good of you all." She is longing to say, "Yet you see I kept you from dinner to-night," but after a moment's reflection leaves it unsaid.
"I hope the country will not disappoint you," he says, after a slight pause. "It is unwise to begin by expecting too much."
"How can it disappoint?" says Portia, with some intensity. She says nothing more, but she lifts her lovely face to the starry sky, and puts out her hands with a faint gesture, fraught with admiration, towards the heavy flowers, the distant lake, the statues half hidden by the drooping shrubs, and the moonlight sleeping upon all!
"There is always in the country, the sun, the flowers, and at night, the moon," she says.
"Yet, the day will come, even for you, when there will be no sun, and when the moon will refuse to give its light." He speaks peculiarly and as though his thoughts are wandering far from her to other scenes in which she holds no part.
"Still, there will always be the flowers," she says, quickly, impressed by his tone, and with a strange anxiety to prove to herself that surely all things are not in vain.
"Oh, no! They are the frailest of the three," returns he; "they are like our dearest hopes. At the very time they should prove true, when the cold Winter of our discontent is full upon us, they forsake us – never to return."
"Never? Does not the Summer bring them again?" She has stopped in the middle of the path, and is asking her question with an anxiety that astonishes even herself. "This rose bush," she says, pointing to one close beside her, "now rich in glory, and warm with golden wealth, will it not bloom again next year, in spite of the death that must pass over it?"
"It may. But you will never see again those roses over there, that you love and rejoice in now! Others may be like them, but they cannot be quite the same."
Portia makes no reply. The moonlight is full upon him, and she can see that his lips have lost their hardness, and are as full of melancholy as his eyes. She is looking curiously at him, regarding him perhaps in the light of a study – he is looking, not at her at all, but at something that surely has no place in this quiet garden, lying so calm and peaceful beneath the light of heaven.
A terrible expression, that is despair and grief commingled, covers his face. Some past horror, that has yet power to sting, is holding him captive. He has forgotten Portia, the beauty of the night, everything! He is wrapt in some miserable memory that will not be laid. Surely, "the heart may break, yet brokenly live on."
Be he guilty (as she believes him) of this crime that has darkened his life, or only the victim of unhappy circumstances, at this moment Portia pities him with all her heart.
Voices in the distance! Roger and Dulce still high in argument; a faint perfume of cigarettes; Dicky Browne's irrepressible laugh; and then they all come round the corner, and somebody says, "Ah, here she is," and Dicky Browne places a shawl round Portia's shoulders.
"You here, Fabian?" says Dulce, gladly. "And making friends with Portia? That's right."
"Taking a mean advantage of us all I call it," says Dicky Browne. "We got introduced in the cruel glare of day, with all our imperfections on our heads. You waited for moonshine, balmy air, scent of roses, poetical effect, and so on! That's why you stayed away from dinner. And to think none of us saw through you! Well, I always said I was very innocent; quite unfit to go about alone!"
"Not a doubt of it," said Roger, cheerfully. "But you won't have to complain of that long. We are all on the look-out for a keeper for you, and a straight waistcoat." Then, turning to Fabian, "Your headache better, old man?"
"Thank you – yes. Your cousin is tired, I think, Dulce. Take her in and make her rest herself."
"Ah! You are worn out," says Dulce to Portia, with contrition. "I have been so long getting you the shawl; but I could not help it. You must not stay up, you know, to do manners to us, you must go straight to bed this moment, and come down like a rose in the morning. Now confess you are tired."