"Again?" said Barnabas inquiringly.
"Oh, yes! She does it regularly. Begad! she's refused me so often that it's grown into a kind of formula with us now. I say, 'Cleone, do!' and she answers, 'Bob, don't!' But even that's something,—lots of 'em haven't got so far as that with her."
"Sir Mortimer Carnaby, for instance!" said Barnabas, biting his lip.
"Hum!" said the Marquis dubiously, deftly re-settling his cravat, "and what of—yourself, Beverley?"
"I have asked her—only twice, I think."
"Ah, and she—refused you?"
"No," sighed Barnabas, "she told me she—despised me."
"Did she so? Give me your hand—I didn't think you were so strong in the running. With Cleone's sort there's always hope so long as she isn't sweet and graciously indifferent."
"Pray," said Barnabas suddenly, "pray where did you get that rose,
Marquis?"
"This? Oh, she gave it to me."