"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—"