very much; the hours dragged a little, I think. Just now, as you
came to us, we were discussing--" it is almost on her lips the word
"you," but she suppresses it in time, and goes on easily--"a dance we
must give as soon as possible."

"An undertaking down here, I suppose?" says Gower, doubtfully; "yet a
change, after all. And, of course, you are fond of dancing?" with a
passing glance, that is almost a caress, at her lithe, svelte figure.

"Yes, very; but I don't care about having a ball here." She says this
with a sigh; then she pauses, and a shade saddens her face.

"But why?" asks he, surprised.

"There are many reasons--many. And you might not understand," she says,
rather confusedly. She turns her face away from his, and in doing so
meets Portia's eyes. She has evidently been listening to what Dulce has
just said, and now gives back her cousin's gaze as though against her
will. After a moment she slowly averts her face, as if seeking to hide
the pallor that is rendering even her lips white.

"Both my evening suits are unwearable," says Dicky Browne, mournfully.
"I shall have to run up to town to get some fresh things." He says this
deprecatingly, as though utterly assured of the fact that every one will
miss him horribly.

"You won't be long away, Dicky, will you?" says Roger, tearfully; at
which Dulce, forgetful for the instant of the late feud, laughs aloud.

"I can't think what's the matter with me," says Dicky, still mournful;
"my clothes don't last any time. A month seems to put 'em out of shape,
and make 'em unwearable."

"No wonder," says Sir Mark, "when you get them made by a fellow out of
the swim altogether. _Where_ does he live? Cheapside or Westbourne
Grove?"

"No; the Strand," says Mr. Browne, to whom shame is unknown, "if you
mean Jerry."

"Dicky employs Jerry because his name is Browne," says Roger. "He's a
hanger-on of the family, and is popularly supposed to be a poor
relation, a sort of country cousin. Dicky proudly supports him in spite
or public opinion. It is very noble of him."

"The governor sent me to him when I was a young chap--for punishment, I
think," says Dicky, mildly, "and I don't like to give him up now. He is
such a fetching old thing, and so conversational, and takes such an
interest in my nether limbs."

"Who are you talking of in such laudatory terms?" asks Dulce, curiously,
raising her head at this moment.

"Of Jerry--my tailor," says Dicky, confidentially.

"