icts herself upon us to-day (which the gods forbid),
be sure you pitch into her about the cook she sent you," says Roger,
gloomily, turning to Dulce. "That will be a topic of conversation at all
events; you owe me a debt of gratitude for suggesting it."

"Well I shan't pay it," says Miss Blount, with decision.

"Well you _ought_. As a rule, the attempts at conversation down here are
calculated to draw tears to the eyes of any intellectual person."

"But why?" asks Portia, indolently.

"It is utterly simple," says Roger, mildly. "There is nothing to talk
about; you cannot well ask people what they had for dinner yesterday,
without being rude, and there are no theatres, or concerts, or clubs to
discuss, and nobody ever dies (the country is fatally healthy), and
nobody ever gets married (because there is nobody to marry), and nothing
is ever born, because they were all born years ago, or else have made up
their minds never to be born at all. It is, in fact, about as
unsatisfactory a neighborhood as any one could wish to inhabit."

"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce.

"You have strong faith," retorts Roger.

"Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir Mark, amiably,
with a view to restoring order.

"I don't think it is half a bad place," says Dicky Browne, genially,
addressing nobody in particular, and talking for the mere sake of
hearing his own voice.

"Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly.

"Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed sneer, which
brings down upon him a withering glance from his betrothed.

"How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window with two
impatient little fingers.

"I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly.

"Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you make such a
ridiculous remark! I never heard of _any_ one who liked rain."

"Well, you hear of me now. _I_ like it."

"Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously.

"It _isn't_ nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am entitled to
my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as much as you do _me_ if
you wish it; but at least allow me to--"

"Love it, as you do me," with an artificial laugh, and a soft shrug of
her rounded shoulders. "It is perfectly absurd, in spite of your
obstinate determination to say you do, I don't believe you _can_ have a
desire for wet weather."

"Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me the lie direct. I
must say you _can_ b