"No, madam,—he was champion of all England as well."
"Oh!" sighed the Duchess, shaking her head, "that poor Sir Mortimer Carnaby! But, as for you, sir, you 're a fool, either a very clumsy, or a very—unselfish one,—anyhow, you're a fool, you know!"
"Yes," sighed Barnabas, his head hanging, "I fear I am."
"Oh yes,—you're quite a fool—not a doubt of it!" said the Duchess with a nod of finality. "And yet, oh, dear me! I think it may be because I'm seventy-one and growing younger every day, or perhaps because I'm so old that I have to wear a wig, but my tastes are so peculiar that there are some fools I could almost—love. So you may give me your arm,—Barnabas."
He obeyed mechanically, and they went on down the road together in silence until they came to a pair of tall, hospitable gates, and here Barnabas paused, and spoke wonderingly:
"Madam, you—you surely forget I am the son of—"
"A champion of all England, Barnabas. But, though you can thrash Sir Mortimer Carnaby, Wilfred Chichester is the kind of creature that only a truly clever woman can hope to deal with, so you may leave him to me!"
"But, madam, I—"
"Barnabas, quite so. But Wilfred Chichester always makes me shudder, and I love to shudder—now and then, especially in the hot weather. And then everything bores me lately—Cleone, myself,—even Whist, so I'll try my hand at another game—with Wilfred Chichester as an opponent."
"But, Duchess, indeed I—"