"I daresay. Her eyes are lovely; so babyish, yet so full of latent coquetry. A man of the world, like Mark, would like that sort of thing. But it is all over now, quite a worn-out tale. He visits there at stated times, and she has thoughts only for her baby and her 'Duke,' as she calls her husband." "I wonder," says Miss Vibart, with a faint yawn, "if at times she doesn't find that a trifle slow?" Then she grows a little ashamed of herself, as she catches Dulce's quick, puzzled glance. "It is a very pretty baby," says Dulce, as though anxious to explain matters. "And what can be more adorable than a pretty baby?" responds her cousin, with a charming smile. "Now do tell me"--quickly, and as though to change the current of her companion's thoughts--"how many people are in this house, and who they are, and everything that is bad and good about them." Dulce laughs. "We come and go," she says. "It would be hard to arrange us. _I_ am always here, and Uncle Christopher, and--Fabian. Roger calls this his home, too, but sometimes he goes away for awhile, and Dicky's room is always kept for him. We are all cousins pretty nearly, and there is one peculiarity--I mean, Uncle Christopher makes no one welcome who does not believe--in--Fabian." Her voice falls slightly as she makes the last remark, and she turns her head aside, and, leaning over the balcony, plays absently with a rosebud that is growing within her reach. In this position she cannot see that Portia has colored warmly, and is watching her with some curiosity. "You must try to like Fabian," says Dulce, presently. Her voice is sad, but quite composed. She appears mournful, but not disconcerted. "You have no doubt heard his unfortunate story from Auntie Maud, and--_you_ believe in him, don't you?" She raises her eyes to her cousin's face. "I hardly think I have quite heard the story," says Miss Vibart evasively. "No? It is a very sad one, and quite unaccountable. If you have heard anything about it, you have heard all I can tell you. Nothing has ever been explained; I am afraid now nothing ever will be. It rests as it did at the beginning--that is the pity of it--but you shall hear." "Not if it distresses you," says Portia gently. A feeling of utter pity for Fabian's sister, with all her faith and trust so full upon her at this moment, touches her keenly. As for the story itself, she has heard it a score of times, with variations, from Auntie Maud. But then, when brought to bay, what _can_ one say! "It will not distress me," says Dulce, earnestly; "and I would so much rather you knew everything before you meet him. It will make things smoother. It all happened four long years ago--years that to him must seem a lifetime. He is twenty-nine now, he was only twenty-five then, just the time, I suppose, when life should be sweetest." "It is mere accident makes life sweet at times," says Portia. "It has nothing to do with years, or place, or beauty. But tell me about your brother."