taken aback. "Moods are
so difficult."

"Anything likely to please him."

"My difficulty just lies there," says Portia.

"Then _do_ something, if you can't say it. Exertion, I know, is
unpleasant, especially in June, but one must sacrifice one's self
sometimes," says Dicky Browne. "He'll be awfully bad presently if he
isn't brought up pretty short by somebody during the next minute or so."

"But what can I do?" says Portia, who is rather impressed by Mr.
Browne's earnestness.

"You hate port, don't you?" asks he, mysteriously.

"Yes. But what has that got to do with it?"

"Take some presently. It is poison, and will make you dreadfully ill;
but that don't count when duty calls. We all hate it, but he likes it,
and will feel positively benevolent if you will only say you like it
too. 'Pride in his _port_, defiance in his eye!'--that line, I am
convinced, was written for him alone, but modern readers have put a
false construction upon it."

"It will make me _so_ unhappy," says Portia, looking at Uncle
Christopher with a pitying eye. The pity is for him, not for herself, as
Dicky foolishly imagines.

"Don't think about that," he says, valiantly. "Petty inconveniences sink
into nothingness when love points the way. Take your port, and try to
look as if you liked it, and always remember, 'Virtue is its own
reward!'"

"A very poor one, as a rule," says Portia.

"Have some strawberries, Portia?" asks Roger at this moment, who has
been sparring with Dulce, mildly, but firmly, all this time.

"Thank you," says Portia.

"They don't go well with port, and Portia adores port," says Mr. Browne,
hospitably, smiling blandly at her as he speaks.

She returns his smile with one of deep reproach.

"Eh? No, do you really?" asks Sir Christopher, waking as if by magic
from his distasteful reverie. "Then, my dear, I can recommend this. Very
old. Very fruity. Just what your poor father used to like."

"Yes--your _poor_ father," says Dicky Browne _sotto voce_, feelingly and
in a tone rich with delicate encouragement.

"Thank you. Half a glass please. I--I never take more," say Portia,
hastily but sweetly, to Sir Christopher, who is bent on giving her a
goodly share of what he believes to be her heart's desire. Then she
drinks it to please him, and smiles faintly behind her fan and tells
herself Dicky Browne is the very oddest boy she has ever met in her
life, and amusing, if a little troublesome.

Sir Christopher once