"For even small mercies we should be thankful," says Roger.
"Who is Julia?" asks Portia, idly.
"'Who is Julia? What is she
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she,
The heavens such grace——'"
"Oh, that will do," says Dicky Browne, turning impatiently to Roger, who has just delivered himself of the above stanza.
"Don't be severe," says Dulce, reprovingly; "extravagant praise is always false, and as to the swains, that is what she wants them to do, only they won't."
"Now, who is severe?" says Roger triumphantly.
"As yet, you have hardly described her," says Portia.
"Let me do it," entreats Mr. Browne, airily, "I feel in the very vein for that sort of thing. She is quite a thing to dream of; and she is much too preciously utter, and quite too awfully too-too!"
"That's obsolete now," says Dulce, "quite out of the market altogether. Too-too has been superseded, you should tell Portia she is very-very!"
"Odious," says Roger, in a careful aside as though determined to think Miss Blount's speech unfinished.