"No, of course not; you and she and all are quite agreed about _that_,"
says Roger, bitterly.

"My good boy, all your world knows it," says Sir Mark, persistently.

"My world is wiser than even _I_ gave it credit for," says Roger,
sneeringly. But there is a sob in his voice as he turns away that sends
a pang through Sir Mark's heart. What has happened? Have they all been
mistaken, then? Even have the principal actors in this small drama been
blind until now, when the awakening has come too late.

Without another word to Stephen, Sir Mark goes slowly indoors, and,
passing through the hall, meets Portia coming toward him, a troubled
expression in her large sad eyes.

"What is it, Mark?" she says, laying her hand on his arm, "Something has
happened to Dulce; she is lying on her bed, and will not speak to me or
any one. Has she really quarreled finally with Roger?"

"Oh, it is worse than that," says Gore, with something that is almost a
groan.

"It can't be true that she has thrown him over for Mr. Gower?" says
Portia, recoiling.

"One never knows what a woman will do," says Mark, gloomily, "I think
she has."

"But what is it all about? How did it begin?"

"With a chocolate cream," says Sir Mark, sententiously. "I assure you,
my dear Portia, for the sake of a paltry box of bon-bons she has
sacrificed the entire happiness of her life!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

"The firste vertue, sone, if thou wilt lerne,
Is to restreine, and kepen wel thy tonge."
--THE MANCIPLE'S TALE--CHAUCER.

THE days have grown shorter and shorter. Daylight now is to be prized,
not sported with, as in the gay and happy Summer. "The inaudible and
noiseless foot of Time" has carried us from "Golden September" to
bleakest Winter, and into that month which claims Christmas for its own.

At the hall, everything is very much the same as it was when last we saw
it, if we except the fact that Roger is absent. He is abroad; _so_ much
abroad, indeed, that nobody knows where he is. A week after his
departure he had written to Sir Christopher, and the week after that
again to Mark Gore; but, beyond these two meagre attempts at
correspondence, no news has been heard of him. Whether, as Mr. Browne
has elegantly expressed it, "he is up the Nile, or up the Spout," is a
matter of speculation.

Sir Christopher is looking a little older, a little graver. He is not so
testy as of yore, a change that fills Dul