"I am not frightened now," she says, with an upward glance, trying to read, through the darkness, the face of him she addresses. The clouds are scurrying swiftly across the sky, and now the moon shines forth again triumphant, and all things grow clearer. She can see that he is tall, dark, handsome, with a strange expression round his mouth that is surely more acquired than natural, as it does not suit his other features at all, and may be termed hard and reckless, and almost defiant. His jaw is exquisitely turned. In his eyes is a settled melancholy--altogether his face betrays strong emotions, severely repressed, and is half-morbid and wholly sad, and, when all is said, more attractive than forbidding. Portia, gazing at him with interest, tells herself that years of mental suffering could alone have produced the hard lines round the lips and the weariness in the eyes. She has no time for further speculation, however, and goes on quickly: "It was more than foolish of me; but I quite forgot, I"--with some uncertainty--"should have remembered." "What do you forget? and what should you have remembered?" "I forgot that burglars do not, as a rule, I suppose, go about in evening clothes; and I should have remembered"--with a smile--"that there was yet another cousin to whom I had not been introduced." "Yes; I am Fabian Blount," he says indifferently. He does not return her smile. Almost he gives her the impression that at this moment he would gladly have substituted another name for his own. "Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner. "If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he says this, and now he _does_ smile, but disagreeably. Portia colors faintly. "You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia." "What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar behind his back all this time; now remembering it, he looks at it, and flings it far from him. "It reminds one of many things; Shakespeare, I suppose principally. I hope," looking at her, "_you_ will choose the right casket." "Thank you. That is a very kindly wish." "How does it happen that you are here all alone?" "I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I think, and ran to get a shawl or some covering for me. That is all." "She is a long time getting it, is she not?" "Is she?" says Portia. This speech of his piques her a little. "Does it seem long?" "Very long, if one is to shiver all the time," replies he, calmly, reading her resentment in her face, but taking no notice of it. "Much too long to be out in this chilly night-air without sufficient clothing, and with a wholesome dread of possible burglars full upon you. May I stay with you till Dulce returns, and will you walk on a little? It is foolish to stand still." "I am sorry you threw away your cigar on my account. I am sure you want it now."