"Beverley was my mother's name. She was Joan Beverley."
"Joan? Joan Beverley? Why y-e-s, I think I remember her, and the talk there was. Joan? Ah yes, to be sure,—very handsome, and—disappeared. No one knew why, but now,—I begin to understand. You would suggest—"
"That she became the honorable wife of my father, John Barty, the celebrated pugilist and ex-champion of England, now keeper of a village inn," said Barnabas, speaking all in a breath, but maintaining his steadfast gaze.
"Eh?" cried the Duchess, and rose to her feet with astonishing ease for one of her years, "eh, sir, an innkeeper! And your mother—actually married him?" and the Duchess shivered.
"Yes, madam. I am their lawful son."
"Dreadful!" cried the Duchess, "handsome Joan Beverley—married to an—inn-keeper! Horrible! She'd much better have died—say, in a ditch—so much more respectable!"
"My father is an honorable man!" said Barnabas, with upflung head.
"Your father is—an inn-keeper!"
"And—my father, madam!"
"The wretch!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Oh, frightful!" and she shivered again.