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Browne. "Show me that book you were looking at? Carter's, eh? How I love a work of that sort! I think I love Carter himself. I daresay it is he designs those improbable vegetables and fruits that would make their fortunes as giants at a penny show. You see there are giants in these days." "Are there?" says Dulce. "I think there aren't." "Well, it's just as simple," says Dicky, amiably.

It is evident he has found what he seeks. "Dulce, I think I told you Stephen Gower was coming to-night," says Roger, simply. And then Dulce rises and rustles up to him, and filled with the determination to keep sacred her promise to be particularly nice to Roger's friend, holds out to him a very friendly hand, and makes him warmly welcome.

I bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding me sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if all walls are the same, but the garden wall hurts very much." "I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly. "He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark. Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer.

Perhaps the careless gods had Stephen Gower's case in consideration; at all events, that calm young man, profiting by the dispute between the betrothed pair, has been making decided, if smothered, love to Dulce, all the evening.

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 Too-too has been superseded, you should tell Portia she is very-very!"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.

Only once after this did our young lieutenant wear his uniform, and that was when, two months later, he was married in a little Kentucky church to Spence Cuthbert, who, at his earnest request, wore as her wedding-dress the costume of a Red Cross nurse. Dulce was, of course, maid of honor, while Rollo Van Kyp was best man.

Without another word to Stephen, Sir Mark goes slowly indoors, and, passing through the hall, meets Portia coming toward him, a troubled expression in her large sad eyes. "What is it, Mark?" she says, laying her hand on his arm, "Something has happened to Dulce; she is lying on her bed, and will not speak to me or any one. Has she really quarreled finally with Roger?"

Of them assuredly is true, and without the limitation he appends, Horace's affirmation, Dulce est desipere, which Mr. Theodore Martin translates, "'Tis pleasing at times to be slightly insane."

"It's impossible to know anybody," sighs Dicky Browne, regretfully, shaking his head at this fresh instance of the frailty of humanity. "Who could have believed Dulce capable of using bad language? I hope her school-children and her Sunday class won't hear it, poor little things. It would shake their faith forever." "How do you know he is talking of Dulce?" says Julia, impatiently.

In condensed simplicity he is the first of Latin poets. Who that has once heard can forget such phrases as Nil desperandum, splendide mendax, non omnis moriar, dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, and a hundred others? His brevity is equalled by his ease. By this must not be understood either spontaneity of invention or rapidity of execution. We know that he was a slow, nay, a laborious workman.