t
tell somebody that somebody else thinks so-and-so fit to pose as a
Venus, and the thing is done, and so-and-so becomes a beauty on the
spot! I say, Dulce, I bet you anything she is as ordinary as you please,
from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot!"

"I can't follow up that bet," says Dulce, who has changed her position
so as effectually to conceal Portia from view, and who is evidently
deriving intense joy from the situation, "because I have only seen her
face and her hands; and they, to say the least, are passable!"

"Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky Browne, with
fine disgust. "Is she aesthetic?"

"No."

"Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously.

"No."

"Stupid--dull--impossible?"

"No, no, no."

"I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly.

"Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring up from the
sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little face.

"She has two eyes, and a very remarkable nose," says Miss Blount, with a
nod.

"Celestial or Roman?" demands Roger, lazily. By this time he and Dicky
are mounting the stone steps of the balcony, and discovery is imminent.

"I think it is a little unfair," murmurs Portia, in a low whisper, who
is, however, consumed with laughter.

At this moment they reach the balcony, and Dulce says, blandly,
_apropos_ of Roger's last remark, "Perhaps if you ask her that question,
_as she is here_, she will answer you herself!"

She waves her hand towards Portia. Portia rises and comes a step
forward, all her soft draperies making a soft _frou-frou_ upon the stone
flooring; and then there is a good deal of consternation! and a
_tableau_ generally.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon," says Roger, when breath returns to him,
casting an annihilating glance at Dulce, who catches it deftly, plays
with it for a moment, and then flings it carelessly over the balcony
into the rising mist and night.

"Whatever you beg you shall have," says Portia, coming nearer to him and
holding out a slim white hand. "How d'ye do, Roger?"

"It is quite too good of you to forgive me so soon," says that young
man, pressing with deep gratitude the slim, friendly hand. "It was
beastly mean of Dulce, she _might_ have told us"--this with another
glance, meant to wither, at that mischievous maiden, who rather revels
in her guilt. "My only apology is that I didn't know you--had never seen
you, or I could not so have expressed myself."

"What a clever apology,