thing, indeed. If I had incited her she would have made a great
deal more of her opportunity. 'Success,' says James, 'is passionate
effort.' I made no effort, but--"

"Nonsense," says Dulce. "She made a most disgraceful lot of _her_
effort, at all events, and I do believe you were the instigator."

"'You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus,'" quotes Mr. Browne,
reproachfully. "However, let that pass. Tea is ready, I think. Pour it
out, and be merciful."

Thus adjured, Miss Blount pours it out. She looks so utterly sweet in
her soft leaf-green tea gown as she does it, that Mr. Gower, in spite of
her unkindness of an hour agone, feels sufficient courage to advance and
offer himself a candidate for unlimited cups of tea.

He is quite three minutes at her elbow before she deigns to notice him.
Then she turns; and letting her eyes rest on him as though she is for
the first time made aware of his proximity, though in truth she has
known of it for the past sixty seconds, she says, calmly--

"Bread and butter, or cake, Mr. Gower?" quite as innocently as if she is
ignorant (which she is not) of his desire to be near her.

"Neither, thank you," says Stephen, gravely. "It was not that brought me
to--"

"But, please, do have some cake," says Miss Blount, lifting her eyes to
his, and making him a present of a sweet and most unexpected smile. As
she says this, she holds out to him on a plate a pretty little bit of
plum cake, which she evidently expects him to devour with relish. It is
evident, too, that she presents it to him as a peace-offering, and as a
sign that all animosity is at an end between them.

"No, thank you," says Mr. Gower, decidedly, but gratefully, and with a
very tender smile, meant as a return for hers.

"Oh, but you must, indeed!" declares she, in a friendly fashion, with a
decisive shake of the head and uplifted brows.

Now, Mr. Gower, poor soul, hates cake.

"Thanks, awfully," he says, in a deprecating tone, "I know it's nice,
very nice, but--er--the fact is I can't bear cake. It--it's horrid, I
think."

"Not this one," says Dulce remorselessly--"you have never eaten a cake
like this. Let me let you into a little secret; I am very fond of
cooking, and I made this cake _all myself_, with my own hands, every bit
of it! There! Now, you really must eat it, you know, or I shall think
you are slighting my attempts at housewifery."

"Oh! if you really made it _yourself_," says the doomed young man,