She is standing before a large glass, let into the wall on one side of the room from ceiling to floor, and, with a back glass in her hand, is leaning slightly to one side, as though lost in admiration of the soft mass of fair, brown hair that lies coiled low down on her neck in high-art fashion. She is like a soft harmony in black and gold, with her filmy robes clinging closely round her, and the old gold, that is so like tarnished yellow, touching her here and there. "Ah! Mark was right," says Dulce, with a little sigh of intensest pleasure. "Come down now (you _cannot_ make yourself more beautiful), and be made known to Uncle Christopher." It is in the library that Miss Vibart makes herself known. Dulce entering first, with her gay little air, says: "This is Portia, Uncle Christopher." Thereupon a tall old man, rising from a chair, comes quickly up to them and takes Portia's hand, and, stooping very low, presses his lips to her forehead. He is a remarkably handsome old man, with light hair, and a rather warm complexion, and choleric, but kindly eyes. Even at the first glance Portia tells herself he would be as harsh a foe as he would be a champion true, and in so far she reads him right. He is hot-tempered, obstinate, at moments perhaps unjust, but at all times kind-hearted, and deserving of tenderest regard. Now he is holding his new niece's hand, and is gazing down at her with animated eyes, that no age will ever quite dim. "So glad. _So_ glad you have come to us," he says, in a tone that reminds her of Dulce's, though it is so deep and strong and masculine, and hers so very much the reverse in every way, "Bless me, how days go by! Just last week, as it seems to me, I saw you a little girl in short petticoats and frills, and furbelows, and now--" "I wear petticoats still," says Portia, demurely, with a soft laugh, "and frills sometimes, and often furbelows, I _think_, though I don't in the least know what they mean, but they sound nice. So, after all, I should be now very much as I was." "Very much. But forgive me," says Sir Christopher, "if I say you were not anything like as good-looking then as you are to-day." "A speech easy to forgive," said Portia, lightly. Then, after a pause, "I, too, remember what _you_ were like in those old days." "What then?" asked Sir Christopher, giving a sudden pull to his collar, and betraying an increased degree of interest. "Nothing like so good-looking as you are to-day," retorts she, with a quick smile and a little flicker of her eyelids. "Ah! we shall be friends," cries Sir Christopher, gaily. "Baby and you and I will ride roughshod over all the others; and we have wanted somebody to help us, haven't we, Baby?" Then he turns more entirely to Dulce; "Eh, a sharp wit, isn't it?" he says. "Auntie Maud sent her love to you," said Portia.