"No; I am sure it was not the Duke of Edinburgh. It doesn't sound like him. I wonder why you can't think of it. I am sure if I once eat anything I should remember all about it." "Good gracious!" says Dicky Browne, from his lowly seat, glancing solemnly at Portia, "have they eaten the Duke of Edinburgh? It sounds like it, doesn't it? They must have done it on the sly. And _what_ a meal! Considering they acknowledge him to be of enormous size and length!" "Perhaps it was Sir Garnet Wolseley," says Roger, moodily, in the discontented tone of one who is following out a task utterly repugnant to his feelings. "He has an excellent flavor, but is entirely destitute of shank or shoulder." Sir Mark Gore, at this dreadful speech, lowers his paper and lifts his head. Portia looks faintly startled. What can Roger be talking about? "Ain't it awful," says Mr. Browne, "who'd have thought it of them. They look quite mild--and--er--like other people. Positively they are cannibals! And (did you remark?) it is _roast shoulder_ they prefer, because they are grumbling at the want of it in the unfortunate General who has evidently been enticed from his home and coldly murdered by them. I wonder it wasn't in the papers--but doubtless the family hushed it up. And how heartlessly they speak! But, by the way, what on earth is a _shank_?--" "The neck is splendid, and, indeed, there is no waste whatever," goes on Roger, in a wooden tone. "No waist whatever! Did you hear that? I always thought poor Sir Garnet was a lean man," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "Poor, poor fellow, can nothing satisfy them but rank and talent?" "Not a bit like it," breaks in Dulce, petulantly tapping her foot upon the floor. She is never petulant with any one but Roger, being indeed, by nature, the very incarnation of sweetness and light. "Give it up," says Roger, rising hope in his tone--hope that, alas, is never verified. "And meet McIlray with such a lame story as that! Certainly not," says Dulce, warmly. "It must be found out. Do try again." "Well, this must be it," says Roger, in despair, "The Marquis of Lorne, exquisite short neck, smooth skin, very straight, nice white spine." At this Sir Mark rises to his feet. "Really, my _dear_ Roger!" he says, impulsively--but for the excessive laziness of his disposition it would have been severely. "Ah," says Roger, glad of anything in the shape of a reprieve, even though it be unpleasant argument. "How _can_ Dulcinea find any interest in the color of the Marquis's spine?" says Sir Mark, reprovingly. "Forgive me if I say I think you are going a little too far." "I shall have to go farther," says Roger, desperately, "There is no knowing where I shall end. She can't find it out, and neither can I, and I see no hope of our arriving at anything except a lunatic asylum."