They have all the conversation to themselves, these two, as the others are depressed, or rather impressed, by Sir Christopher's silence, who has one of his brooding fits upon him. Either the redoubtable Bowles disagreed with him, or he disagreed with Bowles, because clouds have crowned his brow since his return home. Mrs. Beaufort by this time has got to Sardou's last comedy, and Dicky, who never heard of it or its author, comes to a conversational stand-still. This means uninterrupted quiet all round, as nobody else is saying anything. The footsteps of the solemn butler, and his equally solemn assistant, is all the sound one hears, and presently they all wake to the fact that something _must_ be said, and _soon_. "What wretched artichokes!" says Dulce, coming nobly to the front, with a laudable desire to fill up the yawning gap. "Yes--melancholy," says Roger, backing her up, as in duty bound; "out of all heart, apparently." At this weak attempt at a joke Dicky grins approvingly. "I know few people so altogether sufficing as our Roger," he says patronizingly, addressing nobody in particular; and as nobody in particular appears to think it necessary to answer him, conversation once more languishes. Sir Mark--who can always find resources in his dinner, whatever else may fail him--is placidly happy, so is Mrs. Beaufort, though, perhaps, she is a little sorry that her sleeves have not been made as tight as Portia's, and with the second puffing, which is certainly beyond all praise! "What's this?" asks Sir Christopher, addressing the butler in a resigned tone, and looking at a round, soft mass that has just been laid before him. "Suet dumpling, Sir Christopher," replies the butler, apologetically. "Again!" says Sir Christopher, in an indescribable manner. "Surely not _again_," repeats Dulce, with unpleasant animation. "It _can't_ be that frightful thing _again_, after all I said to cook yesterday!" "I'm afraid it is, 'em," says the butler, very sadly. "And this is the cook Miss Gaunt so highly recommended!" says Dulce, wrathfully. "Save me from my friends, say I; can't she make anything else, Martin?" "This is a gooseberry tart, 'em," whispers the butler, respectfully, a faint shade of encouragement in his voice, laying that delicacy before her. "That means sugar--lots of sugar," says Dicky Browne, who is sitting close to her. "I'm glad of that, I like lots of sugar." Portia laughs. "You are like my lord mayor's fool," she says; "you like everything that is sweet." "I do," says Dicky, fondly; "that's why I like you." "I think it was very wrong of Miss Gaunt to impose such a woman upon us," says Dulce, deeply aggrieved. "Never trust an old maid," says Roger; "I spend my life giving you good advice, which you won't take; and such an old maid, too, as Miss Gaunt! She is as good (or as bad) as two rolled into one." "She said she was a perfect treasure," exclaims Miss Blount, casting an indignant glance at him.