"As you are here," he says, "let me look at you. Remember, I have never seen you dressed for a ball before." As if astonished at his request, she stands quite still, and, letting her round, bare arms hang loosely before her, with her hands clasped, she lets him gaze at her sweet fairness in utter silence. It takes him some time. Then-- "You are very pale," he says--no more. Not a word of praise escapes him. She is woman enough to feel chagrin at this, and discontent. Has her glass lied to her, then? One small word of approbation, even about her gown, would have been sweet to her at this moment. _Is_ she so very pale? Is it that this white gown does not become her? A quick dislike to the beautiful robe--and only an hour ago she had regarded it with positive affection--now takes possession of her. "I am always pale," she says, with subdued resentment. "Not always. To-night one hardly knows where your _dress_ ends, and where _you_ begin." She has hardly time to wonder if this is a compliment or the other thing, when he goes on again: "I don't think I ever saw you in white before?" he says. "No; and it is probable you will never see me in it again," she says, petulantly. "I dislike it. It is cold and unbecoming, I think." "No, not unbecoming." "Well," she says, impatiently, "not becoming, at least." "That, of course, is quite a matter of taste," he says, indifferently. She laughs unpleasantly. To _make_ him give a decided opinion upon her appearance has now grown to be a settled purpose with her. She moves her foot impatiently upon the ground, then, suddenly, she lifts her eyes to his--the large, sweet, wistful eyes he has learned to know so well, and that now are quick with defiance--and says, obstinately: "Do _you_ think it suits me?" He pauses. And then a peculiar smile that, somehow, angers her excessively, grows round his lips and lingers there. "Yes," he answers, slowly; "you are looking admirably--you are looking all you can possibly desire to-night." She is deeply angered. She turns abruptly aside, and, passing him, goes quickly to the door. "I beg your pardon," he says, hastily, following her, with a really contrite expression on his face. "Of course I know you did not want me to say that--yet--what was it you did want me to say? You challenged me, you know." "I am keeping you from your work," says Portia, quietly. "Go back to it. I know I should not have come here to disturb you, and--" "Do not say that," he interrupts her, eagerly. "I deserve it, I know, but _do not_. I have lost all interest in my work. I cannot return to it to-night. And that book you brought, let me have it now, will you? I shall be glad of it by-and-by." Before she can refuse, a sound of footsteps without makes itself heard; there is a tinkling, as of many bangles, and then the door is thrown wide, and Dulce enters.