"Of course! When you snatched her up in your arms,—and I'll admit you did it very well,—when you had her there, you should have covered her with burning kisses, and with an oath after each. Girls like Cleone need a little brutality and—Ah! there's the Countess! And smiling at me quite lovingly, I declare! Now I wonder what rod she has in pickle for me? Dear me, sir, how dusty your coat is! And spurred boots and buckskins are scarcely the mode for a garden fête. Still, they're distinctive, and show off your leg to advantage, better than those abominable Cossack things,—and I doat upon a good leg—" But here she broke off and turned to greet the Countess,—a large, imposing, bony lady in a turban, with the eye and the beak of a hawk.
"My dearest Letitia!"
"My dear Duchess,—my darling Fanny, you 're younger than ever, positively you are,—I'd never have believed it!" cried the Countess, more hawk-like than ever. "I heard you were failing fast, but now I look at you, dearest Fanny, I vow you don't look a day older than seventy."
"And I'm seventy-one, alas!" sighed the Duchess, her eyes young with mischief. "And you, my sweetest creature,—how well you look! Who would ever imagine that we were at school together, Letitia!"
"But indeed I was—quite an infant, Fanny."
"Quite, my love, and used to do my sums for me. But let me present to you a young friend of mine, Mr.—Mr.—dear, dear! I quite forget—my memory is going, you see, Letitia! Mr.—"
"Beverley, madam," said Barnabas.
"Thank you,—Beverley, of course! Mr. Beverley—the Countess of Orme."
Hereupon Barnabas bowed low before the haughty stare of the keen, hawk-like eyes.
"And now, my sweet Letty," continued the Duchess, "you are always so delightfully gossipy—have you any news,—any stories to laugh over?"