ose," replies Roger, uncompromisingly.

"I thought it was something to play on," says Mr. Browne unabashed.

"Dear me! Is it really eleven?" asks Julia. "I should never have thought
it,"--in reality she thought it was twelve--"why did you not tell
me?"--this to the attentive Dicky, who is placing a shawl round her
shoulders--"you must have known."

"'With thee conversing I forget all time,'" quotes that ardent
personage, with a beautiful smile. "I thought it was only nine."

Even with this flagrant lie Julia is well pleased.

"Dulce, tuck up your gown, the grass is really wet," says Roger,
carelessly, "and put this round you." He goes up to her, as he speaks,
with a soft white scarf in his hands.

"Thank you; Mr. Gower will put it on for me," says Dulce, rather more
wilfully than coquettishly handing the wrap to Stephen, who takes it as
if it were some sacred symbol, and, with nervous care, smothers her
slender figure in it. Roger, with a faint shrug, turns away, and devotes
his attentions to Sir Mark.

Portia, still with the flowers in her hand, has wandered away from the
others, and entering the drawing-room before they have mounted the
balcony steps, goes up to a mirror and regards herself attentively for a
moment.

A little gold brooch, of Indian workmanship, is fastening the lace at
her bosom. She loosens it, and then raises the flowers (now growing
rather crushed and drooping) as if with the evident intention of placing
them, by means of the brooch, against her neck.

Yet, even with her hand half lifted she hesitates, glances at her own
image again; and finally, turning away, leaves the brooch empty.

Fabian, entering the drawing-room at this moment with the others, has
had time to notice the action, the hesitation, everything.

Then comes bed hour. The men prepare to go to the smoking-room--the
women think fondly of their own rooms and their maids.

Fabian, lighting a candle, takes it up to Portia. They are all standing
in the hall now, beneath the light of the hanging lamps. She smiles her
thanks without letting her eyes meet his, and lets him place the candle
in her left hand.

"Have you hurt this?" he asks, lightly touching her right hand as he
speaks.

"No." She pauses a moment, and then, slowly opening her closed fingers,
shows him the blue flowers lying therein.

"They are lovely," she says, in a low tone, "and I _did_ wish for them.
But never--_never_--do that again."

"Do what again?"