or his own.

"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner.

"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he
says this, and now he _does_ smile, but disagreeably.

Portia colors faintly.

"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia."

"What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar behind his
back all this time; now remembering it, he looks at it, and flings it
far from him. "It reminds one of many things; Shakespeare, I suppose
principally. I hope," looking at her, "_you_ will choose the right
casket."

"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish."

"How does it happen that you are here all alone?"

"I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I think, and ran to
get a shawl or some covering for me. That is all."

"She is a long time getting it, is she not?"

"Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a little. "Does it
seem long?"

"Very long, if one is to shiver all the time," replies he, calmly,
reading her resentment in her face, but taking no notice of it. "Much
too long to be out in this chilly night-air without sufficient clothing,
and with a wholesome dread of possible burglars full upon you. May I
stay with you till Dulce returns, and will you walk on a little? It is
foolish to stand still."

"I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I am sure you want
it now."

"I don't believe I ever want anything," says Fabian, slowly; and then
they walk on again, returning by the way she had come. The
night-wallflower is flinging its perfume abroad, the seringas are making
sweet the air, a light eager wind rushes softly past them.

"It was a long drive," says Fabian, presently, with all the air of a man
who is determined to rouse himself--however against his will--and carry
on conversation of some sort. "Are you tired?"

"It _was_ long. But everything here is so new, so fresh, so sweet, that
I have forgotten to be tired."

"You are one of those, perhaps, who always find variety charming." As he
speaks he carefully removes a drooping branch of roses out of her way.

"Not quite always." She smiles as she defends herself. "I like old
friends, and old songs best. I am not absolutely fickle. But I have
always had a great desire to live in the country."

"People who have never tried it, always do have that desire."

"You think I shall be _desillusionne_ in a week? But I shall not. When
George had to return to India, I w