"Sing us something, Dicky, do. You used to sing long ago," says Julia, insinuatingly, who thinks she might be able to accomplish another surreptitious doze under cover of the music. "I've rather given it up of late," says Mr. Browne, with a modest air, and a chuck to his shirt collar. "You used to sing 'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon' sweetly," says Julia, when she has recovered from a vigorous yawn, got through quite safely behind her sheet anchor--I mean her fan. "Well--er--such a lot of fellows go in for the sickly sentimental; I'm tired of it," says Dicky, vaguely. "You didn't tire of _that_ song until that little girl of the Plunkets asked you what a 'brae' was and you couldn't tell her. She told me about it afterwards, and said you were a very amusing boy, but, she feared, uneducated. You gave her the impression, I think," says Sir Mark, pleasantly, "that you believed the word had something to do with that noble (if tough) animal, the donkey!" "I never told her anything of the kind," says Dicky, indignantly. "I never speak to her at all if I can help it. A most unpleasant girl, with a mouth from ear to ear and always laughing." "What a fetching description," says Stephen Gower, with a smile. "You _will_ sing us something?" says Portia, almost entreatingly. She wants to be alone; she wants to get rid of Dicky and his artless prattle at any price. "Certainly," says Mr. Browne, but with very becoming hesitation. "If I could only be sure what style of thing you prefer. I know a comic song or two, if you would like to hear them." "Heavens and Earth!" murmurs Sir Mark, with a groan. He throws his handkerchief over his face, and places himself in an attitude suggestive of the deepest resignation. "I'm afraid I shan't be able to remember _all_ the words," says Dicky, regretfully. "There is any amount of verses, and all as funny as they can be. But I've a shocking memory." "For small mercies--" says Sir Mark, mildly. "Nevertheless I'll try," says Dicky, valiantly, moving toward the piano. "No don't, Dicky," exclaims Sir Mark, with tearful entreaty. "It would break my heart if Portia were to hear you for the first time at a disadvantage. 'I had rather than forty shillings you had your book of songs and sonnets here,' but as you haven't, why, wait till you have. Now," says Sir Mark, casting a warning look upon the others; "I've done _my_ part--hold him tight, some of you, or he will certainly do it still." "Oh! if you don't _want_ to hear me," returns Dicky, with unruffled good humor. "Why can't you say so at once, without so much beating about the bush. I don't want to sing." "Thank you, Dicky," says Sir Mark, sweetly. Stephen is sitting close to Dulce, and is saying something to her in a low tone. Her answers, to say the least of them, are somewhat irrelevant and disconnected. Now she rises, and, murmuring to him a little softly-spoken excuse, glides away from him to the door, opens it, and disappears.