"Nonsense! You are not too old for other things that require far greater exertion. For one example, you will dance all night and never show sign of fatigue." "I like waltzing." "Ah! and not skating." "It hurts when one falls," says Mark, with a yawn; "and why put oneself in a position likely to create stars before one's eyes, and a violent headache at any moment?" "Inferior drink, if you take enough of it, will do all that sometimes," says Mr. Browne, innocently. "Will it? I don't know anything about it" (severely). "You do, I shouldn't wonder; you speak so feelingly." "If you address me like that again, I shall cry," says Dicky, sadly. "Why are not you and Portia skating? It is far too cold to sit still on this damp grass." "I am tired," says Portia, smiling rather languidly. "It sounds very affected, doesn't it? but really I am very easily fatigued. The least little exertion does me up. Town life, I suppose. But I enjoy sitting here and watching the others." "So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite warms my heart to see them flitting to and fro over there like a pretty dream." "What part of your heart?" asks Mr. Browne, with a suppressed chuckle--"the cockles of it?" It is plain he has not yet forgotten his snubbing of a minute since. Nobody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is passed over very properly in the deadliest silence. "By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson down again. That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it." "He can't skate a little screw," says Dicky. "It's a pity to be looking at him. It only raises angry passions in one's breast. He ought to go home and put his head in a bag." "A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark. Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest thing imaginable. "Charitable pair," she says. "Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. Browne, irritably. "And he looks so abominably contented with himself and his deplorable performance. That last time he was merely trying to get from that point there to that," waving his hand in both directions. "Any fool could do it. See, I'll show you." He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, essays to do what Captain Macpherson had tried to do, and succeeds in doing exactly what Captain Macpherson _did_. That is to say, he instantly comes a most tremendous cropper right in front of Portia. Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter at his own defeat, he returns to her side. There is no use in attempting it, nothing earthly could have power to subdue Dicky's spirits. He is quite as delighted at his own discomfiture as if it had happened to somebody else. "You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can speak, "_Any_ fool could do it. _You_ did it." "I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. Never mind-- 'Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'"