sks Portia, faintly. "I thought,
I _hoped_, they were plants indigenous to London soil alone."

"He is nothing of the sort," says Roger, indignantly. "He is about the
best fellow I know. He would be ashamed to go round (like those idiots
you speak of) with flowers and flowing locks. He leaves all that sort of
thing"--contemptuously--"to girls."

"Who is talking of Stephen Gower?" asks Sir Mark, coming towards them
over the path of moonlight that lies upon the smooth lawn. "Happy man to
be discussed by so fair a trio, 'beneath the sweet-smelling starlight,'
as James has it."

"Bless me," says Dicky, "I had no idea dry monopole would have had such
an effect on Gore. He is talking poetry, I think; I never could
understand it myself. Now for example, about those stars--_do_ they
smell? _I_ never noticed it. What's it like, Gore?"

Everyone disdains to take notice of this sally--all, that is, except
Dulce, who is always only too delighted to laugh whenever the barest
chance of being able to do so presents itself.

Roger, crossing over to where she sits, leans his arms on the back of
her chair, and bends his face to hers.

"Look here," he says, in the conciliatory tone of one who is going to
make a request and is not quite sure it will be granted. "If Gower comes
down by-and-by, I wish you would promise me to be good to him. He is a
very old chum of mine, and a very good fellow, and--be civil to him,
will you?"

"What do you suppose I am going to do to him?" asks Miss Blount, opening
her eyes. "Was I bad to him at luncheon? Are you afraid I shall bite
him? I shan't. You may be happy about that."

"Of course--I know; but I want you to be _particularly_ nice to him,"
goes on Roger, though faintly discouraged by her tone. (Now what did he
mean by saying she _wouldn't_ bite him. It sounds as if she would bite
me!) "He is the oldest friend I have; and--er--as we are to be married
some time or other, I want him to like you very much."

"Who are to be married? You and Mr. Gower? It sounded like it," says
Dulce, wilfully.

"I was thinking of you and myself," he says, a little gravely.

"Well, what is it you want me to do?" asks she, moving restlessly in her
seat. She is, in spite of herself, disturbed by his gravity. "Am I to
make love to him, or am I to let him make love to me? Your devotion to
this old friend is quite touching."

"He would be very unlikely indeed to make love to you," replies Roger,
rather stiffly. "