"Inferior drink, if you take enough of it, will do all that sometimes," says Mr. Browne, innocently.
"Will it? I don't know anything about it" (severely). "You do, I shouldn't wonder; you speak so feelingly."
"If you address me like that again, I shall cry," says Dicky, sadly.
"Why are not you and Portia skating? It is far too cold to sit still on this damp grass."
"I am tired," says Portia, smiling rather languidly. "It sounds very affected, doesn't it? but really I am very easily fatigued. The least little exertion does me up. Town life, I suppose. But I enjoy sitting here and watching the others."
"So do I," says Sir Mark. "It quite warms my heart to see them flitting to and fro over there like a pretty dream."
"What part of your heart?" asks Mr. Browne, with a suppressed chuckle—"the cockles of it?" It is plain he has not yet forgotten his snubbing of a minute since.
Nobody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is passed over very properly in the deadliest silence.
"By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson down again. That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it."
"He can't skate a little screw," says Dicky. "It's a pity to be looking at him. It only raises angry passions in one's breast. He ought to go home and put his head in a bag."