"I dare say there are worse," says Dulce. "You have strong faith," retorts Roger. "Well, it would be a nice question to decide," says Sir Mark, amiably, with a view to restoring order. "I don't think it is half a bad place," says Dicky Browne, genially, addressing nobody in particular, and talking for the mere sake of hearing his own voice. "Dicky, I love you," says Dulce, triumphantly. "Lucky Dicky," says Roger, with an only half-suppressed sneer, which brings down upon him a withering glance from his betrothed. "How I hate rain," she says, pettishly, tapping the window with two impatient little fingers. "I love it," says Roger, unpleasantly. "Love rain!" with an air of utter disbelief. "How can you make such a ridiculous remark! I never heard of _any_ one who liked rain." "Well, you hear of me now. _I_ like it." "Oh! nonsense," says Miss Blount, contemptuously. "It _isn't_ nonsense!" exclaims he, angrily, "I suppose I am entitled to my own likes and dislikes. You can hate rain as much as you do _me_ if you wish it; but at least allow me to--" "Love it, as you do me," with an artificial laugh, and a soft shrug of her rounded shoulders. "It is perfectly absurd, in spite of your obstinate determination to say you do, I don't believe you _can_ have a desire for wet weather." "Thank you!" indignantly. "That is simply giving me the lie direct. I must say you _can_ be uncivil when you choose." "Uncivil!" "Decidedly uncivil, and even more than that." "What do you mean! I insist on knowing what you mean by more." "They're at it again," says Mr. Browne, at this auspicious moment, waving his hand in an airy fashion in the direction of our two belligerents. Mr. Browne is a person who can always say and do what he likes for several reasons, the principal being that nobody pays the smallest attention to either his sayings or doings. Everybody likes Dicky, and Dicky, as a rule, likes everybody. He has a father and a home somewhere, but where (especially with regard to the former), is vague. The home, certainly, is kept up for nobody except the servants, as neither Dicky nor his father ever put in an appearance there. The latter (who has never yet mastered the fact that he is growing old), spends all his time in the favorite window of his Club in Pall Mall, with his nose pressed against the pane and his attention irrevocably fixed upon the passers-by on the other side of the way. This is his sole occupation from morning till night; unless one can take notice of a dismal and most diabolical tattoo that at unfortunate moments he is in the habit of inflicting upon the window, and the nerves of the other occupants of the room in which he may be.