"That which may provoke your scorn of me, which may earn me Cleone's bitterest contempt."
"Why then, sir—don't say another word about it—"
"Ah, but I must—indeed I must! For I know now that to balk at it, to—to keep silent any longer would be dishonorable—and the act of a coward!"
"Oh dear me!" sighed the Duchess, "I fear you are going to be dreadfully heroic about something!"
"Let us say—truthful, madam!"
"But, sir,—surely Truthfulness, after all, is merely the last resource of the hopelessly incompetent! Anyhow it must be very uncomfortable, I'm sure," said the Duchess, nodding her head. Yet she was quick to notice the distress in his voice, and the gleam of moisture among the curls at his temple, hence her tone was more encouraging as she continued. "Still, sir, speak on if you wish, for even a Duchess may appreciate honor and truth—in another, of course,—though she does wear a wig!"
"Believe me," sighed Barnabas, beginning to stride restlessly to and fro, "the full significance of my conduct never occurred to me until it was forced on my notice by—by another, and then—" he paused and brushed the damp curls from his brow. "To-day I tried to write to Cleone—to tell her everything, but I—couldn't."
"So you decided to come and tell me first, which was very nice of you," nodded the Duchess, "oh, very right and proper! Well, sir, I'm listening."
"First, then," said Barnabas, coming to a halt, and looking down at her steadfast-eyed, "you must know that my real name is—Barty."
"Barty?" repeated the Duchess, raising her brows. "Mm! I like
Beverley much better."