verified.

"And meet McIlray with such a lame story as that! Certainly not," says
Dulce, warmly. "It must be found out. Do try again."

"Well, this must be it," says Roger, in despair, "The Marquis of Lorne,
exquisite short neck, smooth skin, very straight, nice white spine."

At this Sir Mark rises to his feet.

"Really, my _dear_ Roger!" he says, impulsively--but for the excessive
laziness of his disposition it would have been severely.

"Ah," says Roger, glad of anything in the shape of a reprieve, even
though it be unpleasant argument.

"How _can_ Dulcinea find any interest in the color of the Marquis's
spine?" says Sir Mark, reprovingly. "Forgive me if I say I think you are
going a little too far."

"I shall have to go farther," says Roger, desperately, "There is no
knowing where I shall end. She can't find it out, and neither can I, and
I see no hope of our arriving at anything except a lunatic asylum."

"I can look it up by myself," says Miss Blount, grandly, "I don't want
your help--much. I daresay I can manage by myself, after all. And even
if I can't, I daresay Mark will come to my assistance if you forsake
me."

"I won't," says Gore, decidedly; "I won't indeed. I would do anything in
the world for you, Dulcinea, as you know, but for this work
unfortunately I am too modest. I _couldn't_ go about making inquiries
about the color of people's spines. I couldn't, indeed. As a matter of
science I daresay it would be interesting to know the exact number of
shades, but--I feel I am unequal to the task."

"The Duke of Connaught," goes on Roger, wearily, hope being stifled in
his breast, "bright green skin, well covered with bloom; small neck
and--"

"Oh! hang it all, you know," says Dicky Browne, forgetting himself in
the excitement of the moment, "I don't believe his Royal Highness _has_
a green skin, do you, Portia?--saw him only a fortnight ago, and he
looked all right then, just as white as the rest of us."

"It's cucumbers," says Miss Blount, with dignity.

"Yes, cucumbers," responds Mr. Dare, with a sigh; he is evidently in the
last stage of exhaustion. "McIlray has forgotten the name of some
particular seed he planted in the Spring that we all liked immensely
(how I wish we _hadn't_), and he has compelled Dulce to try and discover
it. So we are looking for it in these infer--I mean these very
prettily-illustrated books that the seedsman has kindly sent us (how I
wish he hadn't), and hope to fin