"Oh, indifferent well, sir, I thank you. But allow me to present my friend to your Lordship,—Mr. Beverley—my father!"
So Barnabas shook hands with the Viscount's Roman parent, and, meeting his kindly eyes, saw that, for all their kindliness, they were eyes that looked deep into the heart of things.
"Come, gentlemen," cried the Duchess rising, "if you have quite finished breakfast, take me to the stables, for I'm dying to see the horses, I vow I am. Lead the way, Viscount. Mr. Beverley shall give me his arm."
So towards the stables they set forth accordingly, the Duchess and Barnabas well to the rear, for, be it remarked, she walked very slowly.
"Here it is, Barnabas," said she, as soon as the others were out of ear-shot.
"What, madam?"
"Oh, dear me, how frightfully dense you are, Barnabas!" she exclaimed, fumbling in her reticule. "What should it be but a letter, to be sure—Cleone's letter."
"A letter from Cleone! Oh, Duchess—"
"Here—take it. She wrote it last night—poor child didn't sleep a wink, I know, and—all on your account, sir. I promised I'd deliver it for her,—I mean the letter—that's why I made Bamborough bring me here. So you see I've kept my word as I always do—that is—sometimes. Oh, dear me, I'm so excited—about the race, I mean—and Cleone's so nervous—came and woke me long before dawn, and there were tears on her lashes—I know because I felt 'em when I kissed them—I mean her eyes. And Patten dressed me in such a hurry this morning—which was really my fault, and I know my wig's not straight—and there you stand staring at it as though you wanted to kiss it—I mean Cleone's letter, not my wig. That ridiculous Mr. Tressider told Cleone that it was the best course he ever hoped to ride over—meaning 'the worst' of course, so Cleone's quite wretched, dear lamb—but oh, Barnabas, it would be dreadful if— if you were—killed—oh!" And the Duchess shivered and turned away.
"Would you mind? So much, madam?"