who is as clever as Dicky at
always saying the wrong thing.

"Not that I am aware of," replies Gower, haughtily. Calling to mind his
late conversation with his betrothed, he naturally looks upon himself as
the aggrieved party. All she had said then, her coldness, her
petulance--worse than all, her indifference--are still fresh with him,
and rankles within his breast. Coming a little more into the ruddy light
of the fire, he says, slowly, addressing Portia,

"As--as Miss Blount seems rather upset about something, I think I shall
not stay to dinner to-night. Will you excuse me to her?"

"Oh, do stay!" says Portia, uncertain how to act. She says this, too, in
spite of a pronounced prod from Dicky Browne, who is plainly desirous of
increasing the rupture between Stephen and Dulce. May not such a rupture
reinstate Roger upon his former throne? Oddly enough, Dicky, who has no
more perspicacity than an owl, has arranged within himself that Roger
would be as glad to renew his old relations with Dulce as she would be
to renew hers with him.

"There are other things that will take me home to-night, irrespective of
Dulce," says Stephen, smiling upon Portia, and telling his lie
valiantly. "Good night, Miss Vibart."

And then he bids adieu to the others, quite composedly, though his brain
is on fire with jealousy, not even omitting the children. Sir Mark and
Dicky, feeling some vague compassion for him, go with him to the hall
door, and there, having bidden him a hearty farewell, send him on his
way.

"I give you my word," says Dicky Browne, confidentially detaining Sir
Mark, forcibly, "we haven't had a happy day since she engaged herself to
Gower; I mean since Roger's departure. Look here, Gore, it is my opinion
she doesn't care _that_ for him," with an emphatic and very eloquent
snap of his fingers.

"For once in my life, Dicky, I entirely agree with you," says Sir Mark,
gloomily.

CHAPTER XXII.

"Sir, You are very welcome to our house:
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy."
--SHAKESPEARE.

FROM Christmas Day to New Year's Day we all know is but a week--but
_what_ a week it is! For my part I think this season of supposed jollity
the most uncomfortable and forlorn of any in the year. During all these
seven interminable days the Boodie still clings to her belief in Roger,
and vows he will surely retu