delighted. "Now, what a rogue!"
He turns to Dulce, as he always does on every occasion, be it sweet or
bitter. "You hear her, Dulce. She flatters me, eh?"

"Uncle Christopher, you are a sad, sad flirt," says Dulce, patting his
cheek. "I am glad poor Auntie Maud escaped your fascinations. You would
have forgotten her in a week. Do you know what o'clock it is?--_after_
six. Now do go up and get ready for dinner, and try to be in time for
once, if only to do honor to Portia. He is so irregular," says Dulcinea,
turning to Portia.

Miss Vibart, like Alice, begins to think it all "curiouser and
curiouser;" yet, withal, the house seems full of love.

"Well, indeed as a rule, I believe I _am_ late," says Sir Christopher,
in a resigned tone. "But I always put it down upon Mylder; he _can't_
tie a cravat!" Then, to Portia, "You are pale and thin, child. You must
get rosy and fat, and above all things healthy, before we are done with
you."

"She must, indeed," says Dulce, "though I doubt if she will thank us for
it by-and-by; when she finds herself (as she shall) with rose-colored
cheeks like a dairy-maid, she will be very angry with us all."

"I shall never have red cheeks," says Portia; "and I shall never be
angry with you; but I shall surely get strong in this charming air."

"Here you will live forever," says Dulce. "People at ninety-five
consider themselves in the prime of life."

"Lucky they!" says Portia; "they must 'wear the rose of youth' upon them
forever."

"Oh! we _can_ die young," says Dulce, hastily, as though anxious to take
a stigma off her country-side. "We have been known to do it, but not
much; and the happiest have gone the soonest."

"Yes," says Uncle Christopher, most cheerfully--he is plainly
unimpressed, and shows an inclination to whistle

"Golden lads and girls, all must,
As chimney-sweepers come to dust!"

"I say, Dulce, isn't Portia like that picture of your grand-aunt in the
north gallery?"

"Like who?" asks Portia, anxiously.

"Like the handsomest woman in Europe, of her time," says Sir
Christopher, earnestly, with a low, profound bow that might perhaps have
been acceptable to "the handsomest woman in Europe," but only serves now
to raise wild mirth in the breasts of her degenerate grand-nieces.

When they have reached again the hall outside (leaving Sir Christopher
to seek the tender mercies of Mylder) Portia turns to her cousin--

"I am fortunate," she says, in