"A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark.
Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest thing imaginable.
"Charitable pair," she says.
"Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. Browne, irritably. "And he looks so abominably contented with himself and his deplorable performance. That last time he was merely trying to get from that point there to that," waving his hand in both directions. "Any fool could do it. See, I'll show you." He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, essays to do what Captain Macpherson had tried to do, and succeeds in doing exactly what Captain Macpherson did. That is to say, he instantly comes a most tremendous cropper right in front of Portia.
Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter at his own defeat, he returns to her side. There is no use in attempting it, nothing earthly could have power to subdue Dicky's spirits. He is quite as delighted at his own discomfiture as if it had happened to somebody else.
"You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can speak, "Any fool could do it. You did it."
"I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. Never mind—
'Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'"
"I hardly think I follow you," says Sir Mark. "Where's the dust, Dicky, and where's the just? I can't see either of them."
"My dear fellow, never be literal; nothing is so—so boring," says Mr. Browne, with conviction. "I'm," striking his chest, "the dust, and there," pointing to the lake, "is the just, and—no, by-the-by, that don't sound right—I mean—"