Here Miss Blount, I regret to say, laughs out loud, so does Sir Mark, to everybody's horror. Mr. Browne alone maintains a dignified silence. What Miss Gaunt might or might not have said on this occasion must now forever remain unknown, as Sir Christopher enters at this moment, and shortly after him Mr. Boer. "Was Florence unable to come? I hope she is quite well," says Dulce, with conventional concern. "Quite, thank you. But she feared the air." "The heir?" says Julia Beaufort, inquiringly, turning to Dicky, who is now unhappily quite close to her. Julia, who never listens to anything, has just mastered the fact that Florence Boer is under discussion, and has heard the word "air" mentioned in connection with her. "Yes. Didn't you hear of it?" says Dicky Browne, confidentially. "No," says Julia, also, confidentially. "Why, it is common talk now," says Dicky, as if surprised at her ignorance on a subject so well known to the rest of the community. "Never heard a word of it," says Julia. "Was it in the papers!" "N--o. Hardly, I think," says Dicky. Even as he ceases speaking, three words, emanating from Mr. Boer's ecclesiastical lips, attract Julia's attention. They are as follows: "sun and air!" He, poor man, has just been telling Dulce that his wife (who is slightly hypochondriacal) is very susceptible to the influences of both light and wind. Julia misunderstands. Misled by Dicky's wilfully false insinuation about Florence, whose incessant grievance it is that no baby has come to bless her fireside, she turns to the unfortunate curate and says blandly. "Dear Mr. Boer, _so_ glad! I never knew of it until this very instant, when I heard you telling Dulce of your sweet little son and heir. I congratulate you. Of course"--coquettishly--"you are very proud of it. Having had three dear babies of my own I can quite rejoice with you and Mrs. Boer." Deadly silence follows this outburst. Mr. Boer blushes a dingy red. The others relapse into an awed calm; all is confusion. Portia is the first to recover herself. "Dear Dulce, may we have our tea?" she says, sweetly, pointing to the table in the distance, where the man, five minutes ago, had placed the pretty Sevres cups and saucers. By this time Julia has awakened to the fact that she has committed herself in some way unknown to her; has, in fact, taken a false step not now to be retrieved. "What lovely cups!" she says, therefore, very hurriedly, to Dulce, pointing to the Sevres on the distant table, with a view to covering her confusion; "so chaste--so unique. I adore old china. I myself am something of a connoisseur. Whenever I have a spare penny," with an affected little laugh, "I go about collecting it."