"Forty thousand pounds! Against a favorite! Cleone, my dear," said the Duchess, with one of her quick, incisive nods, "Cleone, this Barnabas of ours is either a madman or a fool! And yet—stoop down, sir,—here where I can see you,—hum! And yet, Cleone, there are times when I think he is perhaps a little wiser than he seems,—nothing is so baffling as simplicity, my dear! If you wished to be talked about, Barnabas, you have succeeded admirably,—no wonder all London is laughing over such a preposterous bet. Forty thousand pounds! Well, it will at least buy you notoriety, and that is next to fame."
"Indeed, I hadn't thought of that," said Barnabas.
"And supposing your horse had been lamed and you couldn't ride,—how then?"
"Why, then, I forfeit the money, madam."
Now here the Duchess frowned thoughtfully, and thereafter said "ha!" so suddenly, that Cleone started and hurried to her side.
"Dear God-mother, what is it?"
"A thought, my dear!"
"But—"
"Call it a woman's intuition if you will."
"What is your thought, dear?"