"Did she dance well?" asks Stephen, waking up suddenly from a lengthened examination of the unconscious Dulce's fair features. An examination, however, overseen by Roger, and bitterly resented by him.
"She didn't dance at all, she only galumphed," says Dicky, wrathfully. "She regularly took the curl out of me; I was never so fatigued in my life. And she is so keen about it, too; she will dance, and keeps on saying, 'Isn't it a pity to lose this lovely music?'—and so on. I wished myself in the silent grave many times."
"Well, as bad as she is, I'd make an even bet she will be married before her sister," says Stephen.
"I don't think either of them will be married before the other," says Mr. Browne, gloomily; "one might go much farther than them without faring worse. I laughed aloud when at last I got rid of the elder one; I gave way to appropriate quotation; I fell back on my Wordsworth; I said:
'Nor am I loth, but pleased at heart,
Sweet (?) Highland girl, from thee to part.'"
The query represents the expression of Mr. Browne's face as he mentions the word that goes before it.
"Well done, Dicky!" says Sir Mark.
"What has Dicky been saying now?" asks Fabian, who has been wandering in a very sad dreamland, and just come back to a sadder earth at this moment. "Has he been excelling himself?"
"I'll say it all over again for you, if you like," says Dicky, kindly; "but for nobody else."
"Thanks, but later on," says Fabian, smiling.