"How old is she?" asks Portia--"this little beauty you speak of--this harmony in blue and gold?" "Five, I think. She is not in the least like her mother, who goes in for aesthetics, with a face like a French doll, and who will love you forever, if you will only tell a lie, and say you think she resembles Ellen Terry." "With a soul given entirely to French bonnets and Louis Quinze shoes, she would be thought ultra-mundane," says Sir Mark, who is trying to make Dulce's little toy terrier, Gilly, stand on his hind legs, in search of cake. "My goodness! what a long word," says Dicky Browne, who is now eating bread and butter, because he has finished the cake. "Does it mean anything edible? Because if so, I don't quite follow you; _no_ one could masticate Julia!" "I hope she will be in a good temper when she comes," says Roger. "Last time she terrified us all into fits." "If the children have behaved nicely in the train, and if anyone has taken any notice of her, she will be charming," says Dulce, moodily. "If not, she will be--the other thing." "And the other thing isn't nice," puts in Dicky, in his pleasantest tone. "Then what shall we do with her just at first?" says Miss Blount, who is evidently in fear of breakers ahead. "Look here," says Mr. Browne, who couldn't hold his tongue to save his life, "I'll tell you the first thing to say to any fellow who arrives at your house. Don't go worrying him about the health of his sister, and his cousins, and his aunts, but just ask him if he will have a B. and S. He _will_, you know--and--and there you are. He won't forget it to you afterwards." Sir Mark laughs. Portia unfurls her fan, and smiles faintly behind it. "Julia isn't a fellow, and I'm sure she wouldn't like brandy," says Dulce, who is feeling a little hopeless as she contemplates the coming of this new guest. "The more fool she," says Dicky. "Try Madeira, then. She has a tenderness for Madeira; and tell her her hat is lovely. That'll fetch her." "Come and sit here, Dicky," says Portia, motioning to the footstool near her. "Your advice is not to be surpassed." "It's not so bad," says Mr. Browne, comfortably settling himself on the cushion at her feet, just as Fabian enters the room; "but I'm sorry she won't entertain the brandy idea. That never fails. It's friendly, homely, you know, and that." "Dicky says if you drink rum and new milk every morning before breakfast, you will live forever," says Dulce, thoughtfully. "What a miserable idea," says Fabian, in his usual soft voice, that has yet something stern about it. "It suggests the Wandering Jew, and other horrors. Who would live forever?" "_I_ would," says Dicky, with a sentimental glance at Portia, "if I might only remain here."