_do_ you like him? Come now, I defy you to say it."

Fabian laughs slightly.

"There, I knew it!" exclaims Sir Christopher, triumphantly, though
Fabian in reality has said nothing; "and as for him, he positively
detests you. What did he say just now?--that he--"

"Oh, never mind that," says Fabian, poking the fire somewhat vigorously.

"Do let us hear it," says Julia, in her usual lisping manner. "Horrid
old man; I am quite afraid of him, he looks so like a gnome, or--or--one
of those ugly things the Germans write about. What did he say of dear
Fabian?"

"That he had him in his power," thunders Sir Christopher, angrily. "That
he could make or unmake him, as the fancy seized him, and so on. Give
you my honor," says Sir Christopher, almost choking with rage, "it was
as much as ever I could do to keep my hands off the fellow!"

Portia, sinking further into her dark corner, sickens with apprehension
at these words. Suspicion, that now, alas! has become a certainty, is
crushing her. Perhaps before this she has had her doubts--vague doubts,
indeed, and blessed in the fact that they may admit of contradiction.
But now--_now_--

What was it Slyme had said? That he could either "make or unmake him,"
that he "had him in his power." Does Slyme, then, know the--the _truth_
about him? Was it through _fear_ of the secretary that Fabian had acted
as his defender, supporting him against Sir Christopher's honest
judgment? How quickly he had tried to turn the conversation; how he had
seemed to shrink from deeper investigation of Slyme's impertinence. All
seems plain to her, and with her supposed knowledge comes a pain, too
terrible almost to be borne in secret.

Fabian, in the meantime, had seated himself beside Julia, and is
listening to some silly remarks emanated by her. The Boodie, who is
never very far from Fabian when he is in the room, is sitting on his
knee with her arms around his neck.

"Come here, Boodie," says Dicky Browne, insinuatingly. "You used to say
you loved me."

"So I do," says the Boodie, in fond remembrance of the biggest doll in
Christendom. "But--"

She hesitates.

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not Fabian more,'"
parodies Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Well, I forgive you. But I thought it
was Roger on whom you had set your young affections. By the by, he has
disappointed you, hasn't he? Here is New Year's Day, and he has not
returned to redeem his promise."

"He will come yet," say