“By the 11.30 p.m.?”

“No.  By the 2.30 p.m.”

“Had you a pleasant journey up from Naples?”

“It was rather dusty.”

I saw that something quite awful was going on and conversed volubly with Mrs. Portheris and Mr. Mafferton to give Dicky a chance, but in a moment I, too, felt a refrigerating influence proceeding from the floral hat and the bun for which I could not account.

“Where have you been?” inquired Dicky, “if I may ask.”

“At Vallombrosa.”

There was also a parasol and it twisted indifferently.

“Ah—­among the leaves!  And were they as thick as William says they are?”

“I don’t understand you.”  And, indeed, this levity assorted incomprehensively with the black despair that sat on Dicky’s countenance.  It was really very painful in spite of Mrs. Portheris’s unusual humanity and Mr. Mafferton’s obvious though embarrassed joy, and as Mrs. Portheris’s cab drove up at the moment I made a tentative attempt to bring the interview to a close.  “Mr. Dod and I are walking,” I said.

“Ah, these little strolls!” exclaimed Mrs. Portheris, with benignant humour.  “I suppose we must condone them now!” and she waved her hand, rolling away, as if she gave us a British matron’s blessing.

“Oh, don’t!” I cried.  “Don’t condone them—­you mustn’t!” But my words fell short in a cloud of dust, and even Dicky, wrapped in his tragedy, failed to receive an impression from them.

“How,” he demanded passionately, “do you account for it?”

“Account for what?” I shuffled.

“The size of her head—­the frost—­the whole bally conversation!” propounded Dicky, with tears in his eyes.

I have really a great deal of feeling, and I did not rebuke these terms.  Besides, I could see only one way out of it, and I was occupied with the best terms in which to present it to Dicky.  So I said I didn’t know, and reflected.

“She isn’t the same girl!” he groaned.

“Men are always talking in the funny columns of the newspapers,” I remarked absently, “about how much better they can throw a stone and sharpen a pencil than we can.”

Mr. Dod looked injured.  “Oh, well,” he said, “if you prefer to talk about something else——­”

“But they can’t see into a sentimental situation any further than into a board fence,” I continued serenely.  “My dear Dick, Isabel thinks you’re engaged.  So does her mamma.  So does Mr. Mafferton.”

“Who to?” exclaimed Mr. Dod, in ungrammatical amazement.

“I looked at him reproachfully.  Don’t be such an owl!” I said.

Light streamed in upon Dicky’s mind.  “To you!” he exclaimed.  “Great Scott!”

“Preposterous, isn’t it?” I said.

“I should ejaculate!  Well, no, I mean—­I shouldn’t ejaculate, but—­oh, you know what I mean——­”

“I do,” I said.  “Don’t apologise.”

“What in my aunt’s wardrobe do they think that for?”