Dicky puts in most of his time at Blount Hall. Indeed, it has grown to be a matter of speculation with the Blount's whether in the event of his marriage he will not elect to bring his bride also to stay with them for good and all! They have even gone so far as to hope he will marry a _nice_ girl, and one whom they can receive in the spirit of love. "I don't think they really ever quite enjoy themselves, until they are on the verge of bloodshed," says Sir Mark, in answer to Dicky's remark. "They are the very oddest pair I ever met." All this is said quite out loud, but so promising is the quarrel by this time, that neither Dulce nor Roger hear one word of it. "You do it on purpose," Dulce is saying in a tone in which tears and extreme wrath fight for mastery, "You torment me from morning till night. You are both rude and unkind to me. And now--_now_--what is it you have just said?" "What have I said?" asks Roger, who is plainly frightened. "What indeed! I should be ashamed to repeat it. But I know you said I was uncivil, and that I told lies, and any amount of things that were even worse." "What on earth is the matter now with you two children?" asks Sir Mark, coming for the second time to the rescue. "I'm sure _I_ don't know," says Roger, desperately. "It was all about the rain, I think. She is angry because I like it. How can I help that? I can't be born again with other preferences just to oblige _her_." "There is some comfort in _that_ thought," says Miss Blount, vindictively. "One of you in a century is _quite_ sufficient." "Oh! come now, Dulce," protests Sir Mark, kindly. "You don't mean that, you know. And besides only pretty speeches should come from pretty lips." "Well, he does nothing but tease me," says Dulce, tearfully. "He makes my life perfectly wretched to me." "How _can_ you say that!" exclaims Dare, indignantly. "I spend my whole time trying to please you--in vain! It is your own temper is at fault." "You hear that?" exclaims Dulce, triumphantly, turning to Sir Mark, who is trying vainly to edge in one word. "I maintain what I say," goes on Roger, hurriedly, fearful lest Sir Mark if he gets time, will say something to support Dulce's side of the question. "It _can't_ be my fault. You know I am very fond of you. There have even been moments," says Mr. Dare, superbly, "when if you had asked me to lie down and let you trample on me, I should have done it!" "Then do it!" says Dulce, with decision. "Now this moment. I am in an awful temper, and my heels are an inch and a half high. I should perfectly _love_ to trample on you. So make haste"--imperiously, "hurry, I'm waiting." "I shan't," says Dare; "I shan't make myself ridiculous for a girl who detests me."