"Are you—quite sure?" persisted Barnabas, aware of the Viscount's haggard cheek and feverish eye.
"Quite, Bev, quite,—behold! feel!" and doubling his fist, he smote Barnabas a playful blow in the ribs. "Oh, my dear fellow, it's going to be a grand race though,—ding-dong to the finish! And it's dry, thank heaven, for 'Moonraker''s no mud-horse. But I shall be glad when we line up for the start, Bev."
"In about—four hours, Dick."
"Yes! Devilish long time till eleven o'clock!" sighed the Viscount, seating himself upon the bed and swinging his spurred heels petulantly to and fro. "And I hate to be kept waiting, Bev—egad, I do!"
"Viscount, do you love the Lady Cleone?"
"Eh? Who? Love? Now deuce take it, Beverley, how sudden you are!"
"Do you love her, Dick?"
"Love her—of course, yes—aren't we rivals? Love her, certainly, oh yes—ask my Roman parent!" And the Viscount frowned blackly, and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Why then," said Barnabas, "since you—honor me with your friendship, I feel constrained to tell you that she has given me to—to understand she will—marry me—some day."
"Eh? Oh! Marry you? The devil! Oh, has she though!" and hereupon the Viscount stared, whistled, and, in that moment, Barnabas saw that his frown had vanished.