Milo of Crotona turned and—looked at her. And though his face was as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.
"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty child!"
Surely no cherub—especially one in such knowing top-boots—could be reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew positively murderous.
"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he coldly, and with his most superb air.
"Groom?" said the Duchess, staring, "what a very small one, to be sure!"
"It ain't inches as counts wiv 'osses, mam,—or hany-think else, mam, —it's nerves as counts, it is."
"Why, yes, you seem to have plenty of nerve!"
"Well, mam, there ain't much as I trembles at, there ain't,—and when I do, I don't show it, I don't."
"And such a pretty child, too!" sighed the Duchess.
"Child, mam? I ain't no child, I'm a groom, I am. Child yourself, mam!"