and, indeed, everything that isn't Japanese is old English, and
everything that isn't old English is Japanese--except, perhaps, a few
lounging-chairs of modern growth brought in to suit the requirements of
such unaesthetic beings as prefer the comfortable satin-and-down lounge
to the more correct, if more trying oak.

"Perhaps it was the Duke of Edinburgh," says Roger, breaking the silence
that has lasted now for a full minute. "I see he is very handsome, of
robust habit and constitution, and of enormous size and length. Is that
what you want?"

"No; I am sure it was not the Duke of Edinburgh. It doesn't sound like
him. I wonder why you can't think of it. I am sure if I once eat
anything I should remember all about it."

"Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, from his lowly seat, glancing
solemnly at Portia, "have they eaten the Duke of Edinburgh? It sounds
like it, doesn't it? They must have done it on the sly. And _what_ a
meal! Considering they acknowledge him to be of enormous size and
length!"

"Perhaps it was Sir Garnet Wolseley," says Roger, moodily, in the
discontented tone of one who is following out a task utterly repugnant
to his feelings. "He has an excellent flavor, but is entirely destitute
of shank or shoulder."

Sir Mark Gore, at this dreadful speech, lowers his paper and lifts his
head. Portia looks faintly startled. What can Roger be talking about?

"Ain't it awful," says Mr. Browne, "who'd have thought it of them. They
look quite mild--and--er--like other people. Positively they are
cannibals! And (did you remark?) it is _roast shoulder_ they prefer,
because they are grumbling at the want of it in the unfortunate General
who has evidently been enticed from his home and coldly murdered by
them. I wonder it wasn't in the papers--but doubtless the family hushed
it up. And how heartlessly they speak! But, by the way, what on earth is
a _shank_?--"

"The neck is splendid, and, indeed, there is no waste whatever," goes on
Roger, in a wooden tone.

"No waist whatever! Did you hear that? I always thought poor Sir Garnet
was a lean man," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "Poor, poor fellow, can
nothing satisfy them but rank and talent?"

"Not a bit like it," breaks in Dulce, petulantly tapping her foot upon
the floor. She is never petulant with any one but Roger, being indeed,
by nature, the very incarnation of sweetness and light.

"Give it up," says Roger, rising hope in his tone--hope that, alas, is
never