ul. I think, perhaps, Portia's father had been "_breezy_" in the way
of temper.

Then Portia asks many questions, trivial in themselves, yet of mighty
interest to these two, to whom the dead had been dear. And the questions
and answers occupy some time, insomuch that when at length they return
to the church porch, they find the others have all disappeared, and the
sexton preparing to lock the church door.

"Where have all my people gone to?" asks Sir Christopher of this
functionary, in an elevated tone, the functionary being, as he himself
would describe it, "hard of hearing." Whereupon they are informed that
the "Court folk" went "away home through yon small iron gate," and into
the woods beyond, and are now presumably sauntering lazily homeward
beneath the shade of the spreading oaks and elms.

"Then we cannot do better than follow their example," says Sir
Christopher, but almost before they come to the iron gate they see
Fabian, who, unmindful of their presence, nay, rather, utterly unaware
of it, is walking steadily, but slowly, onward, as though lost in
thought.

Presently, hearing footsteps behind him, he turns, and seeing Portia,
starts perceptibly, and comes to a standstill.

"I thought you would all be at home long before this," he says,
involuntarily. Involuntarily also his tone conveys the idea that his
wish was "father to his thought." There is a note in it that is distinct
disappointment. Portia lets her lids fall over her eyes, and lets her
lips form themselves into an almost imperceptible smile. Plainly he had
loitered in the churchyard in the fond hope of avoiding them all (her
especially it may be), and here is the result.

"We thought the same of you," says Sir Christopher, cheerily, coming to
the front bravely, "we believed you at the Court before this. Very lucky
you aren't though, as I want you to see Portia home. I must go and
interview Bowles about that boy of his--a duty I hardly admire."

"It is late now. If you delay any longer you will miss your luncheon,"
says Portia, hurriedly. Her face betrays unmistakable anxiety.

It is now Fabian's turn to smile, but his lips are rigid, and the
commonest observer may read, that mirth of even the grimmest description
is far from him.

"Luncheon, eh? I don't care a fig about luncheon," says Uncle
Christopher, gaily, "unless I'm shooting, or that. No. Better see Bowles
now if I am to see him at all. Sunday is his only visible day, I've been
told.