"How perfectly dreadful!" exclaims Julia, who always takes everything _au grand serieux_. "There is other game in the country besides grouse," says Roger, in a peculiar tone. "I dare say he can't bear to leave that dear old house now he has got into it," says Dulce; "it is so lovely, so quaint, so--" "Now, is it?" asks Dicky Browne, meditatively. "I've seen nicer, I think. I always feel, when there, as if everything, ceilings, roof and all were coming down on my unfortunate head." "But it is so old, so picturesque; a perfect dream, _I_ think," says Dulce, rather affectedly. "It isn't half a bad place, but not to be compared to The Moors, surely," says Sir Mark, gently, looking with some reproof at Dulce--reproof the spoiled child resents--The Moors is Roger's home. "I think The Moors one of the most beautiful places in England." "And one of the draughtiest," says Miss Blount, ungraciously. "I was there once. It was a year ago. It occurred to me, I remember, that the sun had forgotten it; indeed, I had but one thought all the time I stayed." "And that was?" asks Roger, defiantly. "How to get away from it again as soon as possible." "I am sorry my old home found such disfavor in your sight," says Roger, so quietly that remorse wakes within her breast, bringing with it, however, no good result, rather adding fuel to the flame that has been burning brightly since breakfast time. His rebuke is so abominably mild that it brings Miss Blount to the very verge of open wrath. "I think Stephen such a dear fellow," says Julia, at this critical juncture. "So--er--well read, and that." "Yes; though, I think, I have known better," says Sir Mark, looking at Dulce. "Poor Mr. Gower," says that young lady, airily; "everyone seems determined to decry him. What has he done to everybody, and why should comparisons be drawn? There _may_ be better people, and there may be worse; but--I like him." "Lucky he," says Roger, with a faint but distinct sneer, his temper forsaking him; "I could almost wish that I were he." "I could almost wish it, too," says Dulce, with cruel frankness. "Thank you." Roger, by this time, is in a very respectable passion, though nobody but he and Dulce have heard the last three sentences. "Perhaps," he says, deliberately, "it will be my most generous course to resign in favor of--" "More tea, Portia?" interrupts Dulce, very quickly, in a tone that trembles ever so slightly. "No, thank you. But, Dulce, I want you near me. Come and sit here." There is anxiety, mixed with entreaty, in her tone. She has noticed the anger in Roger's face, and the defiance in Dulce's soft eyes, and she is grieved and sorry for them both. But, Dulce, who is in a very bad mood indeed, will take no notice of either the entreaty or the grief.