Dulce, whose tempers are always short-lived, after a little reflection grows very repentant. Turning to him, she lays her little hand on his, as it still rests on the arm of her chair, and says, softly: "I have been cross to you. Forgive me. I did not quite mean it. Tell me again what you want me to do about your friend." "It was only a little matter," says Roger, in a low tone, "and it was, I think, the first favor I ever asked of you; and I thought, perhaps--" He pauses. And raising himself from his lounging position, on her chair, moves as though he would go away from her, having abandoned all hope of having his request acceded to. But as he turns from her, her fingers tighten upon his, and so she detains him. "What is it now?" he asks, coldly, trying to keep up his dignity, but as his glance meets hers, he melts. And, in truth, just now she could have thawed a much harder heart, for on her _mignon_ face sits one of her very loveliest smiles, conjured up for Roger's special benefit. "Don't go away," she entreats, prettily, "and listen to me. I shall be charming to your friend. I shall devote myself exclusively to him if it will please you; and if only to prove to you that I _can_ grant you a favor." "Thank you," says Roger gratefully. Then he regards her meditatively for a moment, and then says, slowly: "Don't be too kind to him." "Could I?" says Dulce, naively. He laughs a little, and, bending his head, presses his lips to the little slender hand that still rests within his own. The caress is so unusual that Dulce glances at him curiously from under her long lashes. A faint, pink glow creeps into her cheeks. She is surprised; perhaps, too, a little pleased, because once again this evening she bestows upon him a smile, soft and radiant. Mr. Browne is rambling on in some incoherent fashion to Julia Beaufort. Sir Mark is telling Portia some quaint little stories. Fabian is silently listening to them stretched at Portia's feet. The last glimpse of day has gone. "Death's twin sister, Sleep," has fallen upon the earth. One by one the sweet stars come out in the dusky vault above, "spirit-like, infinite." In amongst the firs that stand close together in a huge clump at the end of the lawn, great shadows are lying, that stretching ever and ever further, form at last a link between the land and the sea. "Ah! here you are, Stephen," says Sir Mark, addressing the languid young man they had met in the morning, who is coming to them across the grass. "Why didn't you come sooner?" "They wouldn't give me any dinner until about an hour ago," says the languid young man in a subdued voice. He glances from Portia to Julia Beaufort, and then to Dulce. There his glance rests. It is evident he has found what he seeks.