and forget our lost Lenores!'"

"'Ock, 'm?" asks the sedate butler at this emotional moment, in his most
prosaic tones.

Dulce starts perceptibly, and says "No," though she means "Yes." Roger
starts too, and, being rather absent altogether, mistakes the sedate
butler's broken English for good German, and says, "Hockheim?" in a
questioning voice; whereupon Dicky Browne, who has overheard him, laughs
immoderately and insists upon repeating the little joke to everybody.
They all laugh with him, except, indeed, Portia, who happens to be
miles away in thought from them, and does not hear one word of what is
being said.

"Portia," says Dicky, presently.

No answer; Portia's soul is still winging its flight to unseen regions.

"Still deaf to my entreaties," says Mr. Browne, eyeing her fixedly.
Something in his tone rouses her this time from her day-dreams, and,
with a rather absent smile, she turns her face to his. Fabian, who has
been listening to one of Mark Gore's rather pronounced opinions upon a
subject that doesn't concern us here, looks up at this moment and lets
his eyes rest upon her.

"Will you not deign to bestow even one word upon your slave?" asks
Dicky, sweetly. "Do. He pines for it. And after all the encouragement,
too, you have showered upon me of late, this behavior--this studied
avoidance is strange."

"You were asking me--?" begins Portia vaguely, with a little soft laugh.

"'Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant?'" quotes Mr. Browne, with
sentimental reproach. As usual, he attacks his favorite author, and, as
usual also, gives to that good man's words a meaning unknown to him.

Portia, raising her head, meets Fabian's eyes regarding her earnestly,
and then and there colors hotly; there is no earthly reason why she
should change color, yet she does so unmistakably, nay, painfully. She
is feeling nervous and unstrung, and--not very well to-night, and even
this light mention of the word love has driven all the blood from her
heart to her cheeks. A moment ago they were pale as Lenten lilies, now
they are dyed as deep as a damask rose.

For a moment only. She draws her breath quickly, full of anger at her
own want of self-control, and then the flush fades, and she is even
paler than she was before. Again she glances at Fabian, but not again do
her eyes meet his. He has seemingly forgotten her very existence and has
returned to his discussion with Sir Mark. He is apparently deeply
interested, nay,