"I had formed other plans for him weeks ago,—they were quite unsuited to each other, my love."
"I'm delighted you take it so well, my own Fanny," said the Countess, looking the reverse. "We leave almost immediately,—but when you pass through Sevenoaks, you must positively stay with me for a day or two. Goodby, my sweet Fanny!" So the two ancient ladies gravely curtsied to each other, pecked each other on either cheek, and, with a bow to Barnabas, the Countess swept away with an imposing rustle of her voluminous skirts.
"Cat!" exclaimed the Duchess, shaking her fan at the receding figure; "the creature hates me fervently, and consequently, kisses me—on both cheeks. Oh, yes, indeed, sir, she detests me—and quite naturally. You see, we were girls together,—she's six months my junior, and has never let me forget it,—and the Duke—God rest him—admired us both, and, well,—I married him. And so Cleone has actually refused poor Jerningham,—the yellow-maned minx!"
"Why, then—you didn't know of it?" inquired Barnabas.
"Oh, Innocent! of course I didn't. I'm not omniscient, and I only ordered him to propose an hour ago. The golden hussy! the proud jade! Refuse my grand-nephew indeed! Well, there's one of your rivals disposed of, it seems,—count that to your advantage, sir!"
"But," said Barnabas, frowning and shaking his head, "Sir Mortimer
Carnaby has her promise!"
"Fiddlesticks!"
"She gave him the rose!" said Barnabas, between set teeth. The
Duchess tittered.
"Dear heart! how tragic you are!" she sighed. "Suppose she did,—what then? And besides—hum! This time it is young D'Arcy, it seems,—callow, pink, and quite harmless."
"Madam?" said Barnabas, wondering.