Barnabas started, and looking about, presently espied a figure in the shadow of the osiers; a very small figure, upon whose diminutive jacket were numerous buttons that glittered under the moon.
"Why—it's Milo of Crotona!" said Cleone.
"Yes, my lady—hif you please, it are," answered Milo of Crotona, touching the peak of his leather cap.
"But—what are you doing here? How did you know where to find us?"
"'Cause as I came up the drive, m'lady, I jest 'appened to see you a-walking together,—so I followed you, I did, m'lady."
"Followed us?" repeated Cleone rather faintly. "Oh!"
"And then—when I seen you slip, m'lady, I thought as 'ow I'd better—wait a bit. So I waited, I did." And here, again, Milo of Crotona touched the peak of his cap, and looked from Barnabas to Cleone's flushing loveliness with eyes wide and profoundly innocent,—a very cherub in top-boots, only his buttons (Ah, his buttons!) seemed to leer and wink one to another, as much as to say: "Oh yes! Of course! to—be—sure?"
"And what brings you so far from London?" inquired Barnabas, rather hurriedly.
"Coach, sir,—box seat, sir!"
"And you brought your master with you, of course,—is the Viscount here?"