wers
yesterday, that you so coveted. How clearly it stands out now beneath
the moonbeams."

"Like burnished silver," says Portia, dreamily, always with a lazy
motion wafting her black fan to and fro. "And those flowers--how I
longed for them, principally, I suppose, because they were beyond my
reach."

"Where are they," asks Roger. "I never remember seeing blue flowers
there."

"Oh! _you_ wouldn't notice them," says his _fiancee_, a fine touch of
petulance in her tone, that makes Gower lift his head to look at her;
"but they were there nevertheless. They were the very color of the
Alpine gentian, and so pretty. We quite fell in love with them, Portia
and I, Portia especially; but we could not get at them, they were so low
down."

"There was a tiny ledge we might have stood on," says Portia, "but our
courage failed us, and we would not try it."

"And quite right, too," says Sir Mark. "I detest people who climb
precipices and descend cliffs. It makes my blood run cold."

"Then what made you climb all those Swiss mountains, two years ago?"
asks Julia Beaufort, who has a talent for saying the wrong thing, and
who has quite forgotten the love affair that drove Sir Mark abroad at
that time.

"I don't know," replies he, calmly; "I never shall, I suppose. I
perfectly hated it all the while, especially the guides, who were more
like assassins than anything else. I think they hated me, too, and would
have given anything to pitch me over some of the passes."

Portia laughs.

"I can sympathize with you," she says. "Danger of any sort has no charm
for me. Yet I wanted those flowers. I think"--idly--"I shall always want
them, simply because I can't get them."

"You shall have them in three seconds if you will only say the word,"
says Dicky Browne, who is all but fast asleep, and who looks quite as
like descending a rugged cliff as Portia herself.

"I am so glad I don't know the 'word,'" says Portia, with a little
grimace. "It would be a pity to endanger a valuable life like yours."

Dulce turns to Mr. Gower.

"You may smoke if you like," she says, sweetly. "I know you are longing
for a cigarette or something, and _we_ don't mind."

"Really though?" says Gower.

"Yes, really. Even our pretty town-lady here," indicating Portia, "likes
the perfume in the open air."

"Very much indeed," says Portia, graciously, leaning a little toward
Gower, and smiling sweetly.

"A moment ago I told myself I could not be happier,