"Dulce, command us to have tea out here," says Sir Mark, removing his cigarette from his lips for a moment.
"Dear Dulce, yes; that will be sweet," says Portia, who is very silent and very pale and very beautiful to-day.
"Dicky, go and tell some one to bring tea here directly," says Dulce; "and say they are to bring peaches for Portia, because she loves them, and say anything else you like for yourself."
"Thanks; Curaçao will do me very nicely," says Dicky, with all the promptitude that distinguishes him.
"And Maraschino," suggests Sir Mark, in the mildest tone.
"And just a suspicion of brandy," puts in Roger, almost affectionately. Overpowered by their amiability and their suggestions, Dicky turns towards the house.
"I fly," he says. "Think of me till my return."
"Do tell them to hurry, Dicky," says Dulce, anxiously. "They are always so slow. And tell them to bring lots of cake."
"You shall have it all in a couple of shakes," says Mr. Browne, encouragingly, if vulgarly.
"What's that?" asks Dulce, meaning reproof. "It isn't English, is it? How soon will it be?"