h you two children?" asks Sir Mark,
coming for the second time to the rescue.

"I'm sure _I_ don't know," says Roger, desperately. "It was all about
the rain, I think. She is angry because I like it. How can I help that?
I can't be born again with other preferences just to oblige _her_."

"There is some comfort in _that_ thought," says Miss Blount,
vindictively. "One of you in a century is _quite_ sufficient."

"Oh! come now, Dulce," protests Sir Mark, kindly. "You don't mean that,
you know. And besides only pretty speeches should come from pretty
lips."

"Well, he does nothing but tease me," says Dulce, tearfully. "He makes
my life perfectly wretched to me."

"How _can_ you say that!" exclaims Dare, indignantly. "I spend my whole
time trying to please you--in vain! It is your own temper is at fault."

"You hear that?" exclaims Dulce, triumphantly, turning to Sir Mark, who
is trying vainly to edge in one word.

"I maintain what I say," goes on Roger, hurriedly, fearful lest Sir Mark
if he gets time, will say something to support Dulce's side of the
question. "It _can't_ be my fault. You know I am very fond of you. There
have even been moments," says Mr. Dare, superbly, "when if you had asked
me to lie down and let you trample on me, I should have done it!"

"Then do it!" says Dulce, with decision. "Now this moment. I am in an
awful temper, and my heels are an inch and a half high. I should
perfectly _love_ to trample on you. So make haste"--imperiously, "hurry,
I'm waiting."

"I shan't," says Dare; "I shan't make myself ridiculous for a girl who
detests me."

"Now, isn't that just like him?" says Dulce, appealing to the company at
large, who are enjoying themselves intensely--notably Mr. Brown. "Simply
because I told him it would give me some slight pleasure if he fulfilled
his promise, he has decided on breaking it. He has refused to keep his
solemn word, just to vex me."

"That is not my reason."

"Then you are afraid of the high-heeled shoes," with a scornful laugh.

"I am afraid of nothing," hotly.

"Not even of ridicule?"

"Well, yes, I _am_ afraid of that. Most fellows are. But I don't wish to
carry on the argument, I have nothing more to say to you."

"Nor I to you. I hope you will never address me again as long as you
live. Ah!" glancing out of the window, with an assumption of the most
extreme relief and joy--"Here is Mr. Gower coming across the lawn. I
_am_ glad. Now, at least, I shall have