, yellow
rose in her hair, is looking her loveliest. She is a little languid
after her walk, and a little _distraite_, but desirable beyond words.
She is coquetting with her dinner, rather than eating it, and is
somewhat uncomfortably conscious that Fabian's eyes are perpetually
wandering in her direction.

Dicky Browne is talking gaily, and is devoting himself with an ardor
worthy of a better cause to Julia Beaufort, who is chattering inanely
about many things, and who is in her element, and a blood-colored gown.

They have all the conversation to themselves, these two, as the others
are depressed, or rather impressed, by Sir Christopher's silence, who
has one of his brooding fits upon him. Either the redoubtable Bowles
disagreed with him, or he disagreed with Bowles, because clouds have
crowned his brow since his return home.

Mrs. Beaufort by this time has got to Sardou's last comedy, and Dicky,
who never heard of it or its author, comes to a conversational
stand-still. This means uninterrupted quiet all round, as nobody else is
saying anything. The footsteps of the solemn butler, and his equally
solemn assistant, is all the sound one hears, and presently they all
wake to the fact that something _must_ be said, and _soon_.

"What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly to the front, with
a laudable desire to fill up the yawning gap.

"Yes--melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in duty bound; "out of
all heart, apparently."

At this weak attempt at a joke Dicky grins approvingly.

"I know few people so altogether sufficing as our Roger," he says
patronizingly, addressing nobody in particular; and as nobody in
particular appears to think it necessary to answer him, conversation
once more languishes.

Sir Mark--who can always find resources in his dinner, whatever else may
fail him--is placidly happy, so is Mrs. Beaufort, though, perhaps, she
is a little sorry that her sleeves have not been made as tight as
Portia's, and with the second puffing, which is certainly beyond all
praise!

"What's this?" asks Sir Christopher, addressing the butler in a resigned
tone, and looking at a round, soft mass that has just been laid before
him.

"Suet dumpling, Sir Christopher," replies the butler, apologetically.

"Again!" says Sir Christopher, in an indescribable manner.

"Surely not _again_," repeats Dulce, with unpleasant animation. "It
_can't_ be that frightful thing _again_, after all I said to cook