"Why, Clemency, you—you are—handsomer than ever!" stammered the
Viscount.
"Oh, my Lord!" she exclaimed; and as she turned away Barnabas thought there were tears in her eyes.
"Did we startle you, Clemency? Forgive me—but I—that is, we are—hungry, ravenous. Er—this is a friend of mine—Mr. Beverley—Mistress Clemency Dare; and oh, Clemency, I've had no breakfast!"
But seeing she yet stood with head averted, the Viscount with a freedom born of long acquaintance, yet with a courtly deference also, took the hand that hung so listless, and looked down into the flushed beauty of her face, and, as he looked, beheld a great tear that crept upon her cheek.
"Why, Clemency!" he exclaimed, his raillery gone, his voice suddenly tender, "Clemency—you're crying, my dear maid; what is it?"
Now, beholding her confusion, and because of it, Barnabas turned away and walked to the other end of the kitchen, and there it chanced that he spied two objects that lay beneath the table, and stooping, forthwith, he picked them up. They were small and insignificant enough in themselves—being a scrap of crumpled paper, and a handsome embossed coat button; yet as Barnabas gazed upon this last, he smiled grimly, and so smiling slipped the objects into his pocket.
"Come now, Clemency," persisted the Viscount, gently, "what is wrong?"
"Nothing; indeed, nothing, my Lord."
"Ay, but there is. See how red your eyes are; they quite spoil your beauty—"
"Beauty!" she cried. "Oh, my Lord; even you!"