I experience little throbs of satisfaction and delight as I contemplate this promising flirtation; though as yet I do not dare to think of marriage as its probable termination. I long intensely to discuss the subject with Dora, to learn how far I may beguile myself with hope; but one day, having touched upon it very delicately, I am met with such an amount of innocent blankness as effectually deters me from making any further attempt. Nevertheless, speak it I must, or die; and, coming upon Marmaduke suddenly, directly after receiving Dora's rebuff, I proceed with much caution to sound him about the matter. He is in his own private den, a little room devoted to rubbish, and containing a motley collection of pipes, guns, whips, actresses (for the most part decent), and spurs. As I enter he is bending over some new favorite among the guns, and is endeavoring, with the assistance of the largest pin I ever saw, to pick dust from some intricate crevice. He is crimson, either from stooping or anxiety--I don't know which, though I incline towards the latter opinion--as on seeing me he says, irritably,--- "Phyllis, have you a small pin? I cannot think," flinging the large one angrily from him, "why they choose to make them this size: they are not of the smallest use to any fellow who wants to clean a gun." "They may have been designed for some other purpose," I suggest, meekly, producing a more reasonably sized pin, which he seizes with avidity and returns to his task. I seat myself near him, and for a few minutes content myself with watching the loving care he bestows upon his work. No careless servant's hands should touch those new and shining barrels. "Marmaduke," I say at length, "I don't think Sir George so very stupid." "Don't you, darling?" absently. "No. Why did you say he was?" "_Did_ I say it?" Evidently every idea he possesses is centred in that absurd gun. "Dear me, 'Duke, of course you did," I cry, impatiently. "You told me he was not 'brilliant,' and that means the same thing. Don't you remember?" "Well _is_ he brilliant?" "No, but he converses very nicely, and is quite as agreeable as any of the other men, in a general sort of way." "I am very glad you think so. He is a great friend of mine; and, after all, I don't suppose it matters in the least a man's not being able to master his Greek and Latin, or failing to take his degree." "Of course not. I dare say he did not put his mind to it. I am convinced had he done so he would have distinguished himself as--as much as anybody." "Just so." "I think"--with hesitation--"he would suit Dora very well." "I agree with you there; more particularly as Dora is not clever either." "Yes, she is," I cry hotly; "she is exceedingly clever. She can do a great deal more than most girls; she can do lots of things that I can't do." "Can she? But perhaps you fail in the cleverness also?"