t a doubt of it," said Roger, cheerfully. "But you won't have to
complain of that long. We are all on the look-out for a keeper for you,
and a straight waistcoat." Then, turning to Fabian, "Your headache
better, old man?"

"Thank you--yes. Your cousin is tired, I think, Dulce. Take her in and
make her rest herself."

"Ah! You are worn out," says Dulce to Portia, with contrition. "I have
been so long getting you the shawl; but I could not help it. You must
not stay up, you know, to do manners to us, you must go straight to bed
this moment, and come down like a rose in the morning. Now confess you
are tired."

"Well, yes, I am afraid I am," says Portia, who is feeling faintly
disappointed for the first time since her arrival. Why, she scarcely
knows.

"She said 'I am a-weary, a-weary; I would I were a-bed,'" quotes Mr.
Browne, feelingly. Whereupon everyone feels it his duty to take Portia
at once back to the house, less Mr. Browne, by any ill-luck, should
commit himself still further.

It is only when Portia is at last alone in her own room that she
recollects that Fabian forgot to shake hands with her. Or was it she
with Fabian?

CHAPTER V.

"Oh, how full of briars is this working-day world!"
--"AS YOU LIKE IT."

"I WISH you would _try_ to remember," says Dulce, a little hastily. She
is sitting in a rather Gothic chair, and the day is ultra-hot, and the
strain upon her mental powers is greater than she can bear. Hence the
haste.

She is leaning back in the uneasy chair now, pencil in hand, and is
looking up at Roger, who is leaning over the table, in a somewhat
supercilious manner, and is plainly giving him to understand that she
thinks him a very stupid person, indeed.

This is irritating, and Roger naturally resents it. A few puckers show
themselves upon his forehead, and he turns over a page or two of the
gardener's book before him with a movement suggestive of impatience.

"I _am_ trying," he says, shortly.

"Well, you needn't tear the book in pieces," says Dulce, severely.

"I'm not tearing anything," retorts Mr. Dare, indignantly.

"You look as if you wanted to," says Dulce.

"I don't want anything except to be let alone," says Mr. Dare.

The windows are all wide open. They were flung wide an hour ago, in the
fond hope that some passing breeze might enter through them. But no
breeze cometh--is not, indeed, born--and the windows ya