He is sitting near Portia, but not very near. Now Dicky, filled with a desire to converse with Miss Vibart, gets off his seat and flings himself on a rug at her feet. Sir Mark, who is always kindly, though a trifle cynical at times, and thoughtful towards those he likes, is displeased at this change that Dicky has made. Fabian he likes—nay, if there be one friend in the world he loves, it is Fabian Blount. Portia, too, is a favorite of his, so great a favorite that he would gladly see her throw some sunshine into Fabian's life. To make these two come together, and by Portia's influence to induce Fabian to fling away from him and to conquer the terrible depression that has desolated his life ever since the fatal affair of the forged check, has become one of Sir Mark's dearest dreams.
Now it seems to him that when Fabian has so far overcome his settled determination to avoid society as to find a seat beside Portia, and to keep it for at least an hour, it is a vile thing in the thoughtless Dicky to intrude his person where so plainly it is not wanted.
Making some idle excuse, he brings the reluctant Dicky to his side.
"Can't you keep away from them?" says Sir Mark, in an angry whisper.
"Away from whom?" asks Dicky, resentfully.
"From them," with a gentle motion of the hand in the direction of Portia and Fabian.
"What on earth for?" says Dicky Browne, still more resentfully.
"Don't you see he likes her?" says Sir Mark, meaningly.
"I suppose he does," says Dicky Browne, obtusely. "I like her too. We all like her."
"Of course, my dear fellow, one can quite understand that she is about as likeable a person as I know; but—er—don't you see—he wants to be alone with her."