"Now, isn't that just like him?" says Dulce, appealing to the company at large, who are enjoying themselves intensely--notably Mr. Brown. "Simply because I told him it would give me some slight pleasure if he fulfilled his promise, he has decided on breaking it. He has refused to keep his solemn word, just to vex me." "That is not my reason." "Then you are afraid of the high-heeled shoes," with a scornful laugh. "I am afraid of nothing," hotly. "Not even of ridicule?" "Well, yes, I _am_ afraid of that. Most fellows are. But I don't wish to carry on the argument, I have nothing more to say to you." "Nor I to you. I hope you will never address me again as long as you live. Ah!" glancing out of the window, with an assumption of the most extreme relief and joy--"Here is Mr. Gower coming across the lawn. I _am_ glad. Now, at least, I shall have some one to talk to me, who will not scold and quarrel incessantly, and who can sometimes behave like a gentleman." "Tell him so. It will raise him to the seventh heaven of delight, no doubt," says Roger, in an indescribable tone. "I thought it was arranged that we were not to speak to each other again," says Dulce, with considerable severity. Now Portia, being strange to the household, is a little frightened, and a good deal grieved by this passage at arms. "Is it really so bad as they would have us think?" she says, in a low tone, to Sir Mark, whom she has beckoned to her side. "Is it really all over between them?" "Oh, dear, no!" says Sir Mark, with the fine smile that characterizes his lean, dark face. "Don't make yourself unhappy; _we_ are quite accustomed to their idiosyncrasies by this time; you, of course, have yet much to learn. But, when I tell you that, to my certain knowledge, they have bid each other an eternal adieu every week during the past three years, you will have your first lesson in the art of understanding them." "Ah! you give me hope," says Portia, smiling. At this moment Mr. Gower enters the room. "Ah! how d'ye do!" says Dulce, nestling up to him, her soft skirts making a gentle _frou-frou_ as she moves; "_so_ glad you have come. You are late, are you not?" She gives him her hand, and smiles up into his eyes. To all the others her excessive cordiality means only a desire to chagrin Dare, to Stephen Gower it means--well, perhaps, at this point of their acquaintance he hardly knows what it means--but it certainly heightens her charms in his sight. "Am I?" he says, in answer to her remark. "That is just what has been puzzling me. My watch has gone to the bad, and all the way here I have felt as if the distance between my place and the Hall was longer than I had ever known it before. If I am to judge by my own impatience to be here, I am late, indeed." She smiles again at this, and says, softly: "You are not wet, I hope? Such a day to come out. It was a little rash, was it not?"