Sir Mark is telling Portia some quaint little stories. Fabian is
silently listening to them stretched at Portia's feet.

The last glimpse of day has gone. "Death's twin sister, Sleep," has
fallen upon the earth. One by one the sweet stars come out in the dusky
vault above, "spirit-like, infinite."

In amongst the firs that stand close together in a huge clump at the end
of the lawn, great shadows are lying, that stretching ever and ever
further, form at last a link between the land and the sea.

"Ah! here you are, Stephen," says Sir Mark, addressing the languid
young man they had met in the morning, who is coming to them across the
grass. "Why didn't you come sooner?"

"They wouldn't give me any dinner until about an hour ago," says the
languid young man in a subdued voice. He glances from Portia to Julia
Beaufort, and then to Dulce. There his glance rests. It is evident he
has found what he seeks.

"Dulce, I think I told you Stephen Gower was coming to-night," says
Roger, simply. And then Dulce rises and rustles up to him, and filled
with the determination to keep sacred her promise to be particularly
nice to Roger's friend, holds out to him a very friendly hand, and makes
him warmly welcome.

Then Portia makes him a little bow, and Julia simpers at him, and
presently he finds himself accepted by and admitted to the bosom of the
family, which, indeed, is a rather nondescript one. After a few moments
of unavoidable hesitation, he throws himself at Dulce's feet, and,
leaning on his elbow, tells himself country life, after all, isn't half
a bad thing.

"What a heavenly night it is," says Dulce, smiling down on him, still
bent on fulfilling her word to Roger. Perhaps she is hardly aware how
encouraging her smile can be. "See the ocean down there," pointing with
a rounded, soft, bare arm, that gleams like snow in the moonlight, to
where the sea is shining between the trees. "How near it seems, though
we know it is quite far away."

"It is nearer to you than I am," says Mr. Gower, in a tone that might
imply the idea that he thinks the ocean in better care than himself.

"Well, not just now," says Dulce, laughing.

"Not just now," returns he, echoing her laugh. "I suppose we should be
thankful for small mercies; but I wish the Fens was a little nearer to
this place than it is."

"Portia, can you see Inca's Cliff from this?" asks Dulce, looking at her
cousin. "You remember the spot where we saw the little blue flo