"Over there—behind the marble faun,—quite harmless, and very pink, you'll notice. I mean young D'Arcy—not the faun. Clever minx! Now I mean Cleone, of course—there she is!" Following the direction of the Duchess's pointing fan, Barnabas saw Cleone, sure enough. Her eyes were drooped demurely before the ardent gaze of the handsome, pink-cheeked young soldier who stood before her, and in her white fingers she held—a single red rose. Now, all at once, (and as though utterly unconscious of the burning, watchful eyes of Barnabas) she lifted the rose to her lips, and, smiling, gave it into the young soldier's eager hand. Then they strolled away, his epaulette very near the gleaming curls at her temple.
"Lud, young sir!" exclaimed the Duchess, catching Barnabas by the coat, "how dreadfully sudden you are in your movements—"
"Madam, pray loose me!"
"Why?"
"I'm going—I cannot bear—any more!"
"You mean—?"
"I mean that—she has—"
"A very remarkable head, she is as resourceful as I was—almost."
"Resourceful!" exclaimed Barnabas, "she is—"
"An extremely clever girl—"