"And his son—loves Cleone!"
"Dreadful! Frightful" cried the Duchess. "An inn-keeper's son! Beer and skittles and clay pipes! Oh, shocking!" And here, shuddering for the third time as only a great lady might, she turned her back on him.
"Ah," cried Barnabas, "so you scorn me—already?"
"Of course."
"For being—an inn-keeper's son?"
"For—telling of it!"
"And yet," said Barnabas, "I think Barnabas Barty is a better man than Barnabas Beverley, and a more worthy lover; indeed I know he is. And, as Barnabas Barty, I bid your Grace good-by!"
"Where are you going?"
"To the village inn, madam, my proper place, it seems. But—to-morrow morning, unless you have told Cleone, I shall. And now, if your Grace will have the kindness to send my servant to me—"
"But—why tell Cleone?" inquired the Duchess over her shoulder; "there is one alternative left to you."