"Anything you like," says Roger, calmly, which rather finishes the discussion.
The night belongs to warm, lovable June; all the windows are wide open; the perfume of flowers comes to them from the gardens beneath, that are flooded with yellow moonshine. So still it is, so calm, that one can almost hear the love-song the languid breeze is whispering to the swaying boughs.
Across the table come the dreamy sighs of night, and sink into Portia's heart, as she sits silent, pleased, listening to all around, yet a little grieved in that her host is strangely silent, too, and looks as one might who is striving to hear the sound of a distant footstep, that comes not ever.
"He is always that way when Fabian absents himself," says Dicky Browne, with so little preface that Portia starts. "He adores the ground he walks on, and all that sort of thing. Speak to him and get him out of it."
"What shall I say?" asks Miss Vibart, somewhat taken aback. "Moods are so difficult."
"Anything likely to please him."
"My difficulty just lies there," says Portia.
"Then do something, if you can't say it. Exertion, I know, is unpleasant, especially in June, but one must sacrifice one's self sometimes," says Dicky Browne. "He'll be awfully bad presently if he isn't brought up pretty short by somebody during the next minute or so."
"But what can I do?" says Portia, who is rather impressed by Mr. Browne's earnestness.
"You hate port, don't you?" asks he, mysteriously.