"Roger, come up here directly; for once in your life you are wanted by somebody. And you are to come, too, Dicky, and please put on your Sunday manners, both you boys, because I am going to introduce you to Portia!" CHAPTER III. "Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining."--W. PITT. THE boys, as Miss Blount--that is Dulce--irreverently terms them, are coming slowly across the grass, trampling the patient daisies. The sun has "dropped down" and the "day is dead," and twilight, coming up, is covering all the land. A sort of subtle sadness lies on everything, _except_ "the boys," they are evidently full of the enjoyment of some joke, and are gay with smiles. Mr. Browne is especially glad, which convinces his pretty cousin on the balcony that he has been the perpetrator of the "good thing" just recorded. At her voice, both he and his companion start, and Roger, raising his eyes, meets hers. He is a tall, slight young man, handsome, indolent, with dark eyes, and a dark moustache, and a very expressive mouth. Dicky is distinctly different, and perhaps more difficult of description. If I say he is a little short, and a little stout, and a little--a _very_ little--good looking, will you understand him? At least he is beaming with _bonhommie_, and that goes a long way with most people. He seems now rather taken by Dulce's speech, and says: "No! Has she really come?" in a loud voice, that is cheery and comfortable to the last degree. He can't see Portia, as she is sitting down, and is quite hidden from view by the trailing roses. "Is she 'all your fancy painted her?' is she 'lovely and divine?'" goes on Mr. Browne, gaily, as though seeking information. "Beauties are always overrated," says Roger, sententiously, in an even louder voice--indeed, at the very top of his strong young lungs--"just tell somebody that somebody else thinks so-and-so fit to pose as a Venus, and the thing is done, and so-and-so becomes a beauty on the spot! I say, Dulce, I bet you anything she is as ordinary as you please, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot!" "I can't follow up that bet," says Dulce, who has changed her position so as effectually to conceal Portia from view, and who is evidently deriving intense joy from the situation, "because I have only seen her face and her hands; and they, to say the least, are passable!" "Passable! I told you so!" says Roger, turning to Dicky Browne, with fine disgust. "Is she aesthetic?" "No." "Fast?" asks Dicky, anxiously. "No." "Stupid--dull--impossible?" "No, no, no." "I thank my stars," says Dicky Browne, devoutly. "Can't you describe her?" asks Roger, impatiently staring up from the sward beneath at Dulce's charming, wicked little face. "She has two eyes, and a very remarkable nose," says Miss Blount, with a nod.