So Barnabas loosed her, albeit regretfully, and stood watching while she dexterously twisted, and smoothed, and patted her shining hair into some semblance of order; and while so doing, she berated him, on this wise:
"Indeed, sir, but you're horribly strong. And very hasty. And your hands are very large. And I fear you have a dreadful temper. And I know my hair is all anyhow,—isn't it?"
"It is beautiful!" sighed Barnabas.
"Mm! You told me that in Annersley Wood, sir."
"You haven't forgotten, then?"
"Oh, no," answered Cleone, shaking her head, "but I would have you more original, you see,—so many men have told me that. Ah! now you're frowning again, and it's nearly time for me to go, and I haven't had a chance to mention what I came for, which, of course, is all your fault, Barnabas. To-day, I received a letter from Ronald. He writes that he has been ill, but is better. And yet, I fear, he must be very weak still, for oh! it's such poor, shaky writing. Was he very ill when you saw him?"
"No," answered Barnabas.
"Here is the letter,—will you read it? You see, I have no one who will talk to me about poor Ronald, no one seems to have any pity for him,—not even my dear Tyrant."
"But you will always have me, Cleone!"
"Always, Barnabas?"