"Yes."
"Well I—think he was right,—I'm sure he was right. I—didn't know how few my friends were until I—fell out with you. And so—I'm here to—to ask your pardon, and I—don't know how to do it, only—oh, deuce take it! Will you give me your hand, Bev?"
But before the words had well left his lips, Barnabas had sprang forward, and so they stood, hand clasped in hand, looking into each other's eyes as only true friends may.
"I—we—owe you so much, Bev—Clemency has told me—"
"Indeed, Dick," said Barnabas, a little hastily, "you are a fortunate man to have won the love of so beautiful a woman, and one so noble."
"My dear fellow," said the Viscount, very solemn, "it is so wonderful that, sometimes, I—almost fear that it can't be true."
"The love of a woman is generally a very uncertain thing!" said
Barnabas bitterly.
"But Clemency isn't like an ordinary woman," said the Viscount, smiling very tenderly, "in all the world there is only one Clemency and she is all truth, and honor, and purity. Sometimes, Bev, I feel so—so deuced unworthy, that I am almost afraid to touch her."
"Yes, I suppose there are a few such women in the world," said Barnabas, turning away. "But, speaking of the Apostle of Peace, have you met him again—lately?"
"No, not since that morning behind the 'Spotted Cow.' Why?"