"Seen her," repeated John, beginning to rasp at his great square chin, "seen her, Barnabas, why, as to that—I say, as to that—ah!—here we be, Barnabas," and John Barty exhaled a deep breath, very like a sigh of relief, "you can see from here as the poor old 'Hound' will soon be only tail—not a leg to stand on. I'll have him painted back again next week—and the hare."
So, side by side, they mounted the worn steps of the inn, and side by side they presently entered that long, panelled room where, once on a time, they had fronted each other with clenched fists. Before the hearth stood John Barty's favorite arm-chair and into this, after some little demur, Barnabas sank, and stretched out his booted legs to the fire.
"Why, father," said he, lolling back luxuriously, "I thought you never liked cushions?"
"No more I do, Barnabas. She put them there for you."
"She, father?"
"One o' the maids, lad, one o' the maids and—and there y'are!"
"And now, father, you were telling me of the Lady Cleone—"
"No, I weren't, Barnabas," answered his father hastily and turning to select a pipe from the sheaf on the mantel-shelf, "not me, lad, not me!"
"Why, yes, you spoke of her—in the road."
"In the road? Oh, ah—might ha' spoke of her—in the road, lad."