animated, and even as she watches him he laughs aloud,
a rare thing for him.

She tells herself that she is glad of this; _very_ glad, because it may
prove he has not noticed her emotion. Her awkward blush, doubtless, was
unseen by him. Yet I think she is piqued at his indifference, because
her eyes grow duller and her lips sadder, and there is a small, but
painful, flutter at her heart, that reminds her of the days before she
came to Old Court, and that compels her to press her fingers tightly
together, under cover of the table-cloth, in a vain effort to subdue it.

Dicky, who had noticed her quick transitions of color, and who feels
there is something wrong, without knowing what, and who also understands
that he himself, however unwittingly, has been the cause of it, grows
annoyed with himself, and, to distract attention, turns to the Boodie,
who is generally to be found at his elbow when anything sweet is to be
had.

The butler and his attendant are politely requesting the backs of all
the heads to try a little jelly, or cream, or so on. This, at the Court,
is virtually the children's hour, as Sir Christopher--who adores
them--is of opinion that they prefer puddings to fruit, and that, as
they should be made free of both, they are to put in an appearance with
the first sweet every evening.

The Boodie, whose "vanity" is whipped cream, has just been helped to it,
and Dicky, at this moment (that he may give Portia time to recover
herself) turning to the golden-haired fairy beside him, adds to her
felicity by dropping some crimson jelly into the centre of the cream.

"There now, I have made an island for you," he says.

Julia overhears him, and thinking this a capital opportunity to show off
the Boodie's learning, says, proudly:

"Now, darling, tell Dicky what an island really is."

Dicky feels honestly obliged to her for following up his lead, and so
breaking the awkward silence that has descended upon him and Portia.

"A tract of land entirely surrounded by water," says the Boodie,
promptly, betraying a faint desire to put her hands behind her back.

"Not at all," says Mr. Browne, scornfully; "it is a bit of red jelly
entirely surrounded by cream!"

"It is _not_," says the Boodie, with a scorn that puts his in the shade.
To be just to the Boodie, she is always eager for the fray. Not a touch
of cowardice about her. "How," demands she, pointing to the jelly, with
a very superior smile, "how do you think on