her," says
Mr. Browne, gloomily; "one might go much farther than them without
faring worse. I laughed aloud when at last I got rid of the elder one; I
gave way to appropriate quotation; I fell back on my Wordsworth; I said:

'Nor am I loth, but pleased at heart,
Sweet (?) Highland girl, from thee to part.'"

The query represents the expression of Mr. Browne's face as he mentions
the word that goes before it.

"Well done, Dicky!" says Sir Mark.

"What has Dicky been saying now?" asks Fabian, who has been wandering in
a very sad dreamland, and just come back to a sadder earth at this
moment. "Has he been excelling himself?"

"I'll say it all over again for you, if you like," says Dicky, kindly;
"but for nobody else."

"Thanks, but later on," says Fabian, smiling.

He is sitting near Portia, but not very near. Now Dicky, filled with a
desire to converse with Miss Vibart, gets off his seat and flings
himself on a rug at her feet. Sir Mark, who is always kindly, though a
trifle cynical at times, and thoughtful towards those he likes, is
displeased at this change that Dicky has made. Fabian he likes--nay, if
there be one friend in the world he _loves_, it is Fabian Blount.
Portia, too, is a favorite of his, so great a favorite that he would
gladly see her throw some sunshine into Fabian's life. To make these two
come together, and by Portia's influence to induce Fabian to fling away
from him and to conquer the terrible depression that has desolated his
life ever since the fatal affair of the forged check, has become one of
Sir Mark's dearest dreams.

Now it seems to him that when Fabian has so far overcome his settled
determination to avoid society as to find a seat beside Portia, and to
keep it for at least an hour, it is a vile thing in the thoughtless
Dicky to intrude his person where so plainly it is not wanted.

Making some idle excuse, he brings the reluctant Dicky to his side.

"Can't you keep away from them?" says Sir Mark, in an angry whisper.

"Away from whom?" asks Dicky, resentfully.

"From them," with a gentle motion of the hand in the direction of Portia
and Fabian.

"What on earth for?" says Dicky Browne, still more resentfully.

"Don't you see he _likes_ her?" says Sir Mark, meaningly.

"I suppose he does," says Dicky Browne, obtusely. "I like her too. We
all like her."

"Of course, my dear fellow, one can quite understand that she is about
as likeable a person as I kno