"Eh? Much obliged, I'm sure," says Sir Christopher. "Very good of her; mine to her in return. A most estimable woman she always was, if short of nose. How she _could_ have thrown herself away upon that little insignificant--eh?--though he _was_ my brother--eh?" "She ought to have had you," says Miss Vibart, with soft audacity. "Eh? eh?" says Sir Christopher, plainly delighted. "Now, what a rogue!" He turns to Dulce, as he always does on every occasion, be it sweet or bitter. "You hear her, Dulce. She flatters me, eh?" "Uncle Christopher, you are a sad, sad flirt," says Dulce, patting his cheek. "I am glad poor Auntie Maud escaped your fascinations. You would have forgotten her in a week. Do you know what o'clock it is?--_after_ six. Now do go up and get ready for dinner, and try to be in time for once, if only to do honor to Portia. He is so irregular," says Dulcinea, turning to Portia. Miss Vibart, like Alice, begins to think it all "curiouser and curiouser;" yet, withal, the house seems full of love. "Well, indeed as a rule, I believe I _am_ late," says Sir Christopher, in a resigned tone. "But I always put it down upon Mylder; he _can't_ tie a cravat!" Then, to Portia, "You are pale and thin, child. You must get rosy and fat, and above all things healthy, before we are done with you." "She must, indeed," says Dulce, "though I doubt if she will thank us for it by-and-by; when she finds herself (as she shall) with rose-colored cheeks like a dairy-maid, she will be very angry with us all." "I shall never have red cheeks," says Portia; "and I shall never be angry with you; but I shall surely get strong in this charming air." "Here you will live forever," says Dulce. "People at ninety-five consider themselves in the prime of life." "Lucky they!" says Portia; "they must 'wear the rose of youth' upon them forever." "Oh! we _can_ die young," says Dulce, hastily, as though anxious to take a stigma off her country-side. "We have been known to do it, but not much; and the happiest have gone the soonest." "Yes," says Uncle Christopher, most cheerfully--he is plainly unimpressed, and shows an inclination to whistle "Golden lads and girls, all must, As chimney-sweepers come to dust!" "I say, Dulce, isn't Portia like that picture of your grand-aunt in the north gallery?" "Like who?" asks Portia, anxiously. "Like the handsomest woman in Europe, of her time," says Sir Christopher, earnestly, with a low, profound bow that might perhaps have been acceptable to "the handsomest woman in Europe," but only serves now to raise wild mirth in the breasts of her degenerate grand-nieces. When they have reached again the hall outside (leaving Sir Christopher to seek the tender mercies of Mylder) Portia turns to her cousin-- "I am fortunate," she says, in her usual composed fashion that is yet neither cold nor repellant, "I find Uncle Christopher, also, altogether charming!"