"Come, that's better and better!" nodded Mr. Shrig brightly, "that's werry pretty, that is—things is rosier than I 'oped, but then, as I said afore, things is allus blackest afore the dawn. Oakshott's Barn, eh? Ecod, now, but it sounds a nice, lonesome place—just the sort o' place for it, a—a—capital place as you might call it." And Mr. Shrig positively chuckled and rubbed his chubby hands together; but all at once, he shook his head gloomily, and glancing at Barnabas, sighed deeply. "But you—von't go, o' course, sir?"
"Go?"
"To Oakshott's Barn, to-morrow evening?"
"Yes, of course," answered Barnabas, "the appointment is for seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty!" nodded Mr. Shrig, "and a werry nice time for it too! Sunset, it'll be about—a good light and not too long to vait till dark! Yes, seven-thirty's a werry good time for it!"
"For what?"
"V'y," said Mr. Shrig, lowering his voice suddenly, "let's say for 'it'!"
"'It,'" repeated Barnabas, staring.
"Might I jest take a peep at that theer letter, v'ere it says seven-thirty, sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, pointing to a certain line of Cleone's letter, "here it is!"