y is like the bee amongst the flowerets. By Jove, if he improves
the shining hours, he ought to make a good match yet," says Dicky's
papa, who has condescended to forsake his club for one night, and grace
Dulce's ball with his somewhat attenuated charms.

As the above speech will prove, Mr. Browne senior's knowledge of Watts
and Tommy Moore is limited and decidedly mixed.

Among all the fair women assembled at the Hall to-night, to Portia,
beyond dispute, must the golden apple be awarded. She is still pale, but
exceedingly beautiful. The wistful, tired expression that darkens her
eyes only serves to heighten her loveliness, and throw out the delicate
tinting of her fair skin. Dulce, noticing her extreme pallor, goes up to
her, and whispers gently:

"You are tired, darling. Do not dance any more, unless you wish it."

"I am not sure, I _don't_ wish it; I don't exactly know what it is I
_do_ wish," says Portia, with a rather broken smile. "I daresay, like
most other things in this life, I shall find out all about it when it is
too late. But finish your waltz, dearest, and don't puzzle your brain
about me."

All the windows are thrown wide open. Outside the heavens are alight
with stars. The air is heavy with the breath of dying flowers, and the
music--faint and low at times, and again wild and sweet--rises and
swells as the director waves to and fro his magic wand.

Inside, in the conservatories, the lamps are burning low; the tender
blossoms are hanging down their heads. Between the dark green branches
of the shrubs, lights blue and red and yellow gleam softly. In the
distance may be heard the plaintive drip-drip of many fountains.

Roger, passing through one of the halls, and seeing Dulce and Mr. Gower
standing before a huge Chelsea bowl of flowers, stops short, hesitates,
and then, _bon gre mal gre_, goes up to them and makes some trivial
remark that neither deserves an answer nor gets one.

Dulce is apparently wrapped up in the contemplation of a flower she has
taken from the old bowl--that looks something like an indoor Marguerite;
she is plucking it slowly to pieces, and as she so mutilates it,
whispers softly the incantation that will help to declare her fortune:

"Il m'aime--un peu--beaucoup--passionement--pas du tout. Il m'aime--un
peu--"

The petals are all gone; nothing remains but the very heart of the poor
flower, which now, as she breaks it mercilessly in two, flutters sadly
to her feet, and dies