"You really had better," says Dulce, "because you are likely to see a good deal of him, and perpetually addressing people by their proper names is so tiring."
"It is true," says Portia; then turning to Dicky Browne, with half-closed lids and a subdued smile, she says, slowly:
"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."
It has its charm, this lowered tone. Dicky gives in to it; and—metaphorically speaking—instantly prostrates himself at Miss Vibart's feet.
Perhaps he might have done so actually without metaphor, Dicky's conduct being at times uncertain, but for a timely interruption.
"Any chance of dinner to-night?" says a cheery old voice behind them, and turning, they see Sir Christopher standing inside the open window of the drawing room, smiling upon them with the utmost benignity. "Portia, my dear," he says, genially, as though he and she have been intimate for years, "we are all so young here, we hardly require sustenance. Nevertheless, let me take you into the dining-room, if only to see what cook has provided for us."
Portia lays her hand upon his arm, and, followed by the others (who are plainly quarreling in a warm, if subdued fashion), goes into the grand old dining-room. Roger takes the foot of the table; Dicky seats himself next Portia; Dulce, as she always does when no foreign guests are present, or, as she terms it, on "off-days," seats herself near Uncle Christopher.
One place, however, is empty; by right it is Roger's, who, except when Fabian is absent, never sits at the foot of the table.
Sir Christopher fusses a little, grows discontented, and finally says uneasily—
"Where is Fabian?"