" murmurs Portia. "And what flattering emphasis!"
She smiles at him pleasantly through the fast gathering gloom. "You will
now introduce me to your friend, will you not?"

"Dicky, come forward and make your best bow," says Dulce. Whereupon, Mr.
Browne, with a shamefaced laugh, comes to the front, and, standing
before Miss Vibart like a criminal at the bar of justice, bends very
low.

"Miss Vibart--Mr. Browne," says Roger, seriously. But at this Dicky
forgets himself, and throws dignity to the winds.

"She called _you_ Roger! I'm as much her cousin as ever you were!" he
says, indignantly. "_Mr._ Browne, indeed!"

At this, both girls laugh merrily, and so, after a bit, does Dicky
himself, to whose soul the mildest mirth is an everlasting joy.

"I am then to call you Dicky?" asks Portia, smiling, and lifting her
eyes as though half-reluctantly to his; she has quite entered into the
spirit of the thing.

"If you will be so very good," says Dicky Browne.

"You really had better," says Dulce, "because you are likely to see a
good deal of him, and perpetually addressing people by their proper
names _is_ so tiring."

"It is true," says Portia; then turning to Dicky Browne, with
half-closed lids and a subdued smile, she says, slowly:

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."

It has its charm, this lowered tone. Dicky gives in to it;
and--metaphorically speaking--instantly prostrates himself at Miss
Vibart's feet.

Perhaps he might have done so actually without metaphor, Dicky's conduct
being at times uncertain, but for a timely interruption.

"Any chance of dinner to-night?" says a cheery old voice behind them,
and turning, they see Sir Christopher standing inside the open window of
the drawing room, smiling upon them with the utmost benignity. "Portia,
my dear," he says, genially, as though he and she have been intimate for
years, "we are all so young here, we hardly require sustenance.
Nevertheless, let me take you into the dining-room, if only to see what
cook has provided for us."

Portia lays her hand upon his arm, and, followed by the others (who are
plainly quarreling in a warm, if subdued fashion), goes into the grand
old dining-room. Roger takes the foot of the table; Dicky seats himself
next Portia; Dulce, as she always does when no foreign guests are
present, or, as she terms it, on "off-days," seats herself near Uncle
Christopher.

One place, however, is empty; by right it is Roger's, who, ex