ugh to speak, and then suppresses herself.

"I forgot," she says, quietly, after a moment's reflection, "you have
never seen him."

The faith in this small remark touches Portia keenly--the more in that
she has already formed her own opinion on the subject in hand.

"I wonder he stayed here after it happened," she says, with some faint
acceleration of manner. Haste to Portia, is a word unknown.

"He is a hero, a martyr," says Dulce, earnestly, two large tears
gathering in her eyes. "He was in the K.D.Gs., as you know, but of
course he flung up his commission then, and was going abroad, when Uncle
Christopher fell ill. So ill, that we despaired of him. And when even
the doctor from London refused him hope, he called Fabian to his bedside
and made him swear he would not leave him while he lived--and then he
recovered. But he has always held Fabian to his word; and, indeed, it
was a very necessary promise, because I don't think Uncle Christopher
could live without him now. It is all terribly sad; but it would be
worse if Fabian were really in fault, would it not?"

"It is all very sad," says Portia. Her eyes are bent, and she is slowly
turning a ring round and round upon her finger.

"It has ruined Fabian's life, and broken his heart," says Dulce, in a
low tone. "It is more than sad."

"But if innocent, why should it weigh so heavily upon him?" asks Portia,
gently.

"_If_," says Dulce, quickly, the hot blood mounting to her cheeks.
Then--very coldly--"There is no 'if' about it; he _is_ innocent. However
mysterious his unhappy story may sound in a strang-- in your ears,
nevertheless, our Fabian has nothing to do with disgrace. It could not
touch him."

"I put it badly," says Portia, correcting her mistake with much grace.
"I should have said _as_ he is innocent. Forgive me."

"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_.