His '_At home_,' in fact--as all the rest of the week he lies in
bed, and refuses to wash himself."

"Horrid man!" says Miss Vibart, merely for the sake of saying something.
In reality had Bowles felt it his duty to lie a-bed all the year round,
and never indulge in the simplest ablutions, it would not have given her
a passing thought.

"On the Sabbath he rouses himself, and in a spotless shirt (washed by
that idiot of a wife of his, who still will believe in him), and with a
pipe in his mouth, he struts up and down the pavement before the door of
his palatial residence," says Uncle Christopher. "I am sure to find him
to-day."

"Let me go with you," says Portia, as a last resource. "I should like to
be made acquainted with this incomparable Bowles." She smiles as she
speaks, but the smile is somewhat artificial, and is plainly conjured up
with difficulty for the occasion.

"Well, come," says Sir Christopher, who always says "yes," to every one,
and who would encourage you warmly if you expressed a desire to seek
death and the North Pole.

"It is quite impossible," says Fabian, quietly, not raising his voice,
and not moving as he speaks. "Portia cannot go with you to Bowles'
house. The man is insupportable."

Portia has her hand upon Sir Christopher's arm; her eyes are alight;
something within her--some contradictory power--awakens a determination
to see this Bowles. Yet it is hardly so keen a desire to see a man in a
clean shirt and a "churchwarden" that possesses her, as a desire to
circumvent the man who has opposed her expressed wish. Fabian, on his
part, though pained, is equally determined that she shall not be brought
face to face with the unpleasant Bowles. She has her eyes on him, but he
has his on Sir Christopher.

"I should like to go with you," she says, in clear tones, taking no heed
of Fabian's last remark; "I like country people, and strange village
characters, and--and that." This is somewhat vague.

"You remember the last time Dulce went to see _Mrs._ Bowles?" says
Fabian, who has caught Sir Christopher's eye by this. Whatever Dulce
may have endured during that memorable visit is unknown to Portia, but
the recollection of it, as forced upon Sir Christopher's memory, is
all-powerful to prevent her accompanying him on his mission to-day.

"Yes, yes. I remember," he says, hurriedly, "Bowles, as a rule, is not
courteous. My dear child,"--to Portia--"_No_, you cannot, I regret to
say, come with me