"He certainly is not. I have it from Bland himself; and, Dulce," and here he hesitates, as if uncertain whether he ought to proceed or not, "now it is all right, you know, and--and that--and when we have heard he is on the safe road to recovery, it can't be any harm to say what is on my mind, can it?" "No; I suppose not," says Dulce, blushing vividly. "Well, then, just say you will marry me the very moment he is on his feet again," says Roger, getting this out with considerable rapidity. "It will seem ungracious of us, I think, not to take advantage of his kindness as soon as possible." "Supposing he was _to go back of it all_ when he got well," says Dulce, timidly. "Oh, he _can't_; a promise is a promise, you know--as he has made us feel. Poor old Stephen!" this last hastily, lest he shall seem hard on his newly-recovered friend. "If you think that," says Dulce, going close up to him and looking at him with soft love-lit eyes, "I will marry you just whenever you like." To make this sweet assurance doubly sweet, she stands on tiptoe, and, slipping her arms round her lover's neck, kisses him with all her heart. CHAPTER XXVII. "About some act That has no relish of salvation in't." --_Hamlet._ "Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge." --_Titus Andronicus._ "BEFORE you begin, Fabian, it is only fair to tell you that I will not listen favorably to one word in his defense. Under the farsical term of secretary, Slyme has been a disgrace and a torment to me for years; and last night has finished everything." "It was very unfortunate, no doubt," says Fabian, regretfully. "What a curse the love of drink is!--a madness, a passion." "I have told him he must go," says Sir Christopher, who is in a white heat of rage, and is walking up and down the room with an indignant frown upon his face. Just now, stopping short before Fabian, he drops into a seat and says, testily, "_Unfortunate!_ _that_ is no word to use about it. Why, look you how it stands; you invite people to your house to dine, and on your way to your dining-room, with a lady on your arm, you are accosted and insolently addressed by one of your household--your secretary, forsooth--_so_ drunk that it was shameful! He reeled! I give you my word, sir--he _reeled_! I thought Lady Chetwoode would have fainted: she turned as pale as her gown, and but for her innate pluck would have cried aloud. It was insufferable, Fabian. Waste no more words over him, for go he shall." "After all these years," says Fabian, thoughtfully, thrumming gently on the table near him with his forefinger.