moment; nobody ever saw Mr. Browne in the very faintest degree as--well,
as he ought not to be; but there is no denying that after dinner he is
gaiety itself, and (as Dulce's governess used to say of him), "very
excellent company indeed."

"I always feel," he goes on airily, still alluding to the despised
album, "when any one asks me to look at a book of this kind, as if they
thought I was a dummy and couldn't talk. And I _can_ talk, you know."

"You can--you can, indeed," says Sir Mark, feelingly. "Dulce, what was
that we were reading yesterday? I remember, now, a quotation from it
_apropos_ of talking, _not apropos_ of our friend Dicky, of course.
'Then he will talk. Good gods, how he will talk!' Wasn't that it?"

"Sing us something, Dicky, do. You used to sing long ago," says Julia,
insinuatingly, who thinks she might be able to accomplish another
surreptitious doze under cover of the music.

"I've rather given it up of late," says Mr. Browne, with a modest air,
and a chuck to his shirt collar.

"You used to sing 'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon' sweetly," says
Julia, when she has recovered from a vigorous yawn, got through quite
safely behind her sheet anchor--I mean her fan.

"Well--er--such a lot of fellows go in for the sickly sentimental; I'm
tired of it," says Dicky, vaguely.

"You didn't tire of _that_ song until that little girl of the Plunkets
asked you what a 'brae' was and you couldn't tell her. She told me about
it afterwards, and said you were a very amusing boy, but, she feared,
uneducated. You gave her the impression, I think," says Sir Mark,
pleasantly, "that you believed the word had something to do with that
noble (if tough) animal, the donkey!"

"I never told her anything of the kind," says Dicky, indignantly. "I
never speak to her at all if I can help it. A most unpleasant girl, with
a mouth from ear to ear and always laughing."

"What a fetching description," says Stephen Gower, with a smile.

"You _will_ sing us something?" says Portia, almost entreatingly. She
wants to be alone; she wants to get rid of Dicky and his artless prattle
at any price.

"Certainly," says Mr. Browne, but with very becoming hesitation. "If I
could only be sure what style of thing you prefer. I know a comic song
or two, if you would like to hear them."

"Heavens and Earth!" murmurs Sir Mark, with a groan. He throws his
handkerchief over his face, and places himself in an attitude suggestive
of the deepes