“Then I have done you an injustice,” she continued; “I apologize, I am sure, and I find that I have my own candle, thank you.  It is adhering to the side of my bonnet.”

We were perfectly silent.

“Perhaps I ought to try and wait a little longer,” Mrs. Portheris hesitated, “but I feel such a sinking, and I assure you I have fallen away.  My garments are quite loose.”

“Of course it depends,” said Dicky scientifically, “upon the amount of carbon the system has in reserve.  Personally I think I can hold out a little longer.  I had an excellent breakfast this m——­, the day we came here.  But if I felt a sinking——­”

“Waugh!” said Mrs. Portheris.

“Have you—­have you begun?” I exclaimed in agony, while Dicky shook in silence.

“I have,” replied Mrs. Portheris hurriedly; “where—­where is the eucalyptus?  Ah!  I have it!”

“Ben-en-euh! It is nutritive, I am sure, but it requires a cordial.”

The darkness for some reason seemed a little less black and the silence less oppressive.

“I have only eaten about three inches,” remarked Mrs. Portheris presently.  Dicky and I were incapable of conversation—­“but I—­but I cannot go on at present.  It is really not nice.”

“An overdone flavour, hasn’t it?” asked Dicky, between gasps.

“Very much so!  Horribly!  But the eucalyptus will, I hope, enable me to extract some benefit from it.  I think I’ll lie down again.”  And we heard the sound of a cork restored to its bottle as Mrs. Portheris returned to the tomb.  It was quite half an hour before she woke up, declaring that a whole night had passed and that she was more famished than ever.  “But,” she added, “I feel it impossible to go on with the candle.  There is something about the wick——­”

“I know,” said Dicky sympathetically, “unless you are born in Greenland, you cannot really enjoy them.  There is an alternative, Mrs. Portheris, but I didn’t like to mention it——­”

“I know,” she replied, “shoe leather.  I have read of that, too, and I think it would be an improvement.  Have you got a pocket-knife, Mr. Dod?”

Dicky produced it without a pang and we heard the rapid sound of an unbuttoning shoe.  “I had these made to order at two guineas, in the Burlington Arcade,” said Mrs. Portheris regretfully.

“Then,” said Dicky gravely, groping to hand her the knife, “they will be of good kid, and probably tender.”

“I hope so, indeed,” said Mrs. Portheris; “we must all have some.  Will you—­will you carve, Mr. Dod?”

I remembered with a pang how punctilious they were in England about asking gentlemen to perform this duty, and I received one more impression of the permanence of British ideas of propriety.  But Dicky declined; said he couldn’t undertake it—­for a party, and that Mrs. Portheris must please help herself and never mind him, he would take anything there was, a little later, with great hospitality.  However, she insisted, and my portion, I know, was a generous one, a slice off the ankle.  Mrs. Portheris begged us to begin; she said it was so cheerless eating by one’s self, and made her feel quite greedy.