poor old gentleman, though innocent of offence, feels himself growing
warm beneath her relentless gaze.

"It wasn't my fault, my dear," he says, apologetically; "I quite meant
them to go off. I did, indeed."

"Perhaps so. Take care, however, it doesn't occur again," says the
Boodie, with so careful, though unconscious, an imitation of her
mother's manner when addressing her maid, that they all laugh, whereupon
she rolls back again to her former position, and takes no further notice
of them.

Just at this moment Fabian enters the room.

"Going to drive to Warminster?" he asks his uncle.

"Yes."

"Not Bess, I hope?" alluding to a very objectionable young mare in the
stables.

"Yes," says Sir Christopher again. "Why not?"

"She is utterly unsafe. About the worst thing in chestnuts I ever met.
I took her out myself the other day--rode her straight from this to
Grange; and I confess, I should not care to do it again. Take one of the
other horses, and let that beast lie quiet until you can get rid of
her."

"Nonsense!" says Sir Christopher, scornfully; "I wouldn't part with her
for any money. She is the greatest beauty this side of the county."

"Her beauty is her one point; for the rest, she is vindictive and
ill-mannered."

"Don't do anything foolish, dearest," says Dulce, with her eyes large
and frightened. "Do listen to Fabian."

"And let myself be conquered by a pettish chestnut, at my age," says Sir
Christopher, lightly--he had been a famous horseman in his day. "My dear
child, you don't understand, and there are moments when Fabian romances.
To satisfy you, however, I shall take George with me."

"'Wilful man must have his way,'" quotes Fabian, with a slight shrug.
"Before I go out, shall I look over those accounts with Slyme?"

"Where are you going?"

"To the warren, with the others, to have a few shots at the rabbits;
they overrun the place."

"Very good. Just ask Slyme about the accounts. By-the-by, he gets more
irregular daily."

"More drunk, do you mean?" says Fabian. There are moments when his
manner is both cold and uncompromising.

Portia regards him curiously.

"Yes! yes! Just so," says Sir Christopher, hastily. "But for the
melancholy story that attaches itself to him--and that, of course, is
some excuse for him--I really should not feel myself justified in
keeping him here much longer."

"What story?" asks Portia.

"Oh! well; it all lies in a nutshell. It is an old story, too; on