“Madam,” said the Duke, “this moment repays me for whatever trifling hardship I have undergone in my campaigns. To find that all the charms of Mistress Barry on the stage are but feeble compared with those gifts of nature with which she had been endowed, were sure an astonishment to one who had seen her only when she was the centre of a thousand eyes.”
“Oh, your Grace is determined to overwhelm your friends with your compliments as you do your enemies with your culverins. But I vow I am too forward. I am presuming to include my poor self among your Grace's friends.”
“Then think of a sweeter name, my dear lady, and I shall agree to it without demur.”
The Duke was beyond doubt not insensible to the charms of the beautiful actress. She had apparently quite forgotten that the drapery about her shoulders had fallen away more freely even than was permissible in the exigencies of the classical art affected by the eighteenth century painters.
“Ah, Your Grace leaves me without a voice even of protest,” murmured the actress, glancing modestly at the floor.
“Nay, Mistress Barry has need only to protest against the limitations of speech,” said the Duke, facing her and offering her his hand, which, after a moment's hesitation, she took with the homage that she would have given to the hand of a monarch. Then she dropped it with a half stifled sigh, and turned to the door without a word.
“Wherefore fly?” said the Duke, raising the side of the portière while she made a courtesy.
“'T were better so, though I know your Grace cannot understand how flight should ever be linked with discretion.”
“At least, let me conduct you to your chair, madam. Nay, I insist.”
They had scarcely got beneath the glass dome before she had laid her hand upon his arm.