ent or the other thing, when he goes on again: "I don't think I
ever saw you in white before?" he says.

"No; and it is probable you will never see me in it again," she says,
petulantly. "I dislike it. It is cold and unbecoming, I think."

"No, not unbecoming."

"Well," she says, impatiently, "not becoming, at least."

"That, of course, is quite a matter of taste," he says, indifferently.

She laughs unpleasantly. To _make_ him give a decided opinion upon her
appearance has now grown to be a settled purpose with her. She moves her
foot impatiently upon the ground, then, suddenly, she lifts her eyes to
his--the large, sweet, wistful eyes he has learned to know so well, and
that now are quick with defiance--and says, obstinately:

"Do _you_ think it suits me?"

He pauses. And then a peculiar smile that, somehow, angers her
excessively, grows round his lips and lingers there.

"Yes," he answers, slowly; "you are looking admirably--you are looking
all you can possibly desire to-night."

She is deeply angered. She turns abruptly aside, and, passing him, goes
quickly to the door.

"I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, following her, with a really
contrite expression on his face. "Of course I know you did not want me
to say that--yet--what was it you did want me to say? You challenged me,
you know."

"I am keeping you from your work," says Portia, quietly. "Go back to
it. I know I should not have come here to disturb you, and--"

"Do not say that," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I deserve it, I know,
but _do not_. I have lost all interest in my work. I cannot return to it
to-night. And that book you brought, let me have it now, will you? I
shall be glad of it by-and-by."

Before she can refuse, a sound of footsteps without makes itself heard;
there is a tinkling, as of many bangles, and then the door is thrown
wide, and Dulce enters.

She is looking very pretty in a gown of palest azure. There is a
brightness, a joyousness, about her that must attract and please the
eye; she is, indeed,

"One not tired with life's long day, but glad
I' the freshness of its morning."

"I have come to say good-night to you, Fabian," she says, regarding her
brother with loving, wistful eyes. "I suppose I shan't be able to see
you again until to-morrow. Promise me you will go to bed, and to sleep,
_soon_."

"That is the very simplest promise one can give," returns he, mockingly.
"Why should not one sleep?"