"Well, I needn't, you know," says that young lady, lightly; "not if I don't choose, you know. I have got until I am twenty-one to think about it, and I am only eighteen now. I daresay I shall cry-off at the last moment; indeed, I am sure I shall," with a wilful shake of the head, "because Roger, at times, is quite too much, and utterly insupportable, yet, in that case, I shall vex Uncle Christopher, and I do so love Uncle Christopher!" "But he had nothing to do with the arrangement, had he?" "Nothing. It was his brother, Uncle Humphrey, who made the mistake. He left the property between us on condition we married each other. Whichever of us, at twenty-one, declines to carry out the agreement, gets L500 a year off the property, and the rest goes to the happy rejected. It is a charming place, about six miles from this, all lakes and trees, and the most enchanting gardens. I daresay Roger would be delighted if I would give him up, but" (vindictively) "I shan't. He shall never get those delicious gardens all to himself." "What an eccentric will," says Portia. "Well, hardly that. The place is very large, and requires money to keep it up. If he had divided the income between us, and we had been at liberty to go each our own way, the possessor of the house and lands would not have had enough money to keep it in proper order. I think it rather a just will. I wish it had been differently arranged, of course, but it can't be helped now." "Is he your first cousin? You know I have heard very little about this branch of my family, having lived so long in India." "No, my second cousin. Fabian is Uncle Christopher's heir, but if--if he died, Roger would inherit title and all. That is another reason why I hate him. Why should he have even a distant claim to anything that belongs to Fabian?" "But, my dear girl, you are not going to marry a man you hate?" says Portia, sitting up very straight, and forgetting to wave her fan. "Not exactly," says Dulce, meditatively; "I really don't think I hate him, but he can be disagreeable, I promise you." "But if you marry him, hardly tolerating him, and afterwards you meet somebody you can love, how will it be with you then?" "Oh, I shan't do that," she says; "I have felt so married to Roger for years, that it would be positively indecent of me, even _now_, to fall in love with any one. In fact I couldn't." "I daresay, after all, you like him well enough," says Miss Vibart, with her low, soft laugh. "Mark Gore says you are exactly suited to each other." "Mark Gore is a confirmed old bachelor, and knows nothing," says Dulce, contemptuously. "Yet once, they say, he was hopelessly in love with Phyllis Carrington." "So he was. It was quite a romance, and he was the hero." "Phyllis is quite everything she ought to be, and utterly sweet," says Portia, thoughtfully. "But _is_ she the sort of person to create a _grande passion_ in a man like Mark?"