cept when
Fabian is absent, never sits at the foot of the table.

Sir Christopher fusses a little, grows discontented, and finally says
uneasily--

"Where is Fabian?"

"He has a headache, dear," says Dulce, gently. "He hopes we will all
excuse him--especially Portia."

She turns with a sweet glance to Portia, who murmurs something civil in
return.

"He would be better here than moping in his own room," says Sir
Christopher, in a low voice. His spirits are evidently damped, though he
makes an effort to suppress the fact; his smile grows faded, and less
frequent, and presently dies away altogether. Every one makes a noble
effort at conversation, and every one, after a bit, breaks down
ignominiously and looks at his or her fish, as though in it lies some
hidden charm.

Dicky Browne alone remains unimpressed by the gloom of the surroundings.
He is thinking the filleted sole very good indeed, and is lost to all
other ideas.

"Tell you who I saw to-day," he says, airily, "Boer. That clergyman
fellow, you know, who married that annoying girl who used to be always
at Chetwoode. I spent half an hour with him in the High Street, just
opposite the club."

"How you _must_ have enjoyed yourself!" says Roger, feelingly. "How I
wish I could have put myself in your place at that moment."

"Don't you! Not being selfish, I would willingly have resigned to you
the intellectual treat I endured! All things have their end, however,
even my patience, which is known to be elastic like my conscience; so,
as a last resource, I offered him a brandy and soda, and, as it turned
out, it was quite the best thing I could have done under the
circumstances. He looked awfully angry, and went away directly."

"Clever boy!" says Roger. "For the future I shall know exactly what to
do when the reverend Boer inflicts his small talk on _me_. Dead sell,
though, if he accepted your offer. One would have to sit it out with
him, and, probably, he takes his brandy slowly."

"I don't believe he ever took any in his life," says Dulce, idly. "That
is why the chill has never been removed from him. How I wish he could be
thawed."

"I always feel so sorry for Florence," says Portia, languidly; she is
feeling very tired, and is hardly eating anything. From time to time she
looks at Sir Christopher, and wonders vaguely if it is her presence has
kept Fabian from dinner to-night. "But Mr. Boer reads very well."

"When he doesn't turn over two pages at once,