"Yes, madam."
"Ah, very right,—very proper! I remember I had a lover—in the remote ages, of course,—who used to climb—ah, well,—no matter! Though his wall was much higher than yours yonder." Here the Duchess sighed tenderly. "Well, you came to see Cleone, you found her,—and nicely you behaved to each other when you met! Youth is always so dreadfully tragic! But then what would love be without a little tragedy? And oh—dear heaven!—how you must adore each other! Oh, Youth! Youth!—and there's Sir George Annersley—!"
"Then, madam, you must excuse me!" said Barnabas, glancing furtively from the approaching figures to the adjacent wall.
"Oh dear, no. Sir George is with Jerningharn and Major Piper, a heavy dragoon—the heaviest in all the world, I'm sure. You must meet them."
"No, indeed—I—"
"Sir," said the Duchess, buttonholing him again, "I insist! Oh, Sir George—gentlemen!" she called. Hereupon three lounging figures turned simultaneously, and came hurrying towards them.
"Why, Duchess!" exclaimed Sir George, a large, mottled gentleman in an uncomfortable cravat, "we have all been wondering what had become of your Grace, and—" Here Sir George's sharp eye became fixed upon Barnabas, upon his spurred boots, his buckskins, his dusty coat; and Sir George's mouth opened, and he gave a tug at his cravat.
"Deuce take me—it's Beverley!" exclaimed the Marquis, and held out his hand.
"What—you know each other?" the Duchess inquired.
"Mr. Beverley is riding in the steeplechase on the fifteenth," the Marquis answered. Hereupon Sir George stared harder than ever, and gave another tug at his high cravat, while Major Piper, who had been looking very hard at nothing in particular, glanced at Barnabas with a gleam of interest and said "Haw!"