The Viscount laughed, and frowned, and laughed again, then noting the set mouth and chin of the speaker, grew thoughtful, and thereafter stood looking at Barnabas with a new and suddenly awakened interest. Who was he? What was he? From his clothes he might have been anything between a gentleman farmer and a gamekeeper.
As for Barnabas himself, as he leaned there against the stile with his gaze on the distance, his eyes a-dream, he had clean forgotten his awkward clothes and blunt-toed boots.
And after all, what can boots or clothes matter to man or woman? indeed, they sink into insignificance when the face of their wearer is stamped with the serene yet determined confidence that marked Barnabas as he spoke.
"Marry—Cleone Meredith?" said the Viscount at last.
"Marry her—yes," said Barnabas slowly.
"Why then, in the first place let me tell you she's devilish high and proud."
"'T is so I would have her!" nodded Barnabas.
"And cursedly hard to please."
"So I should judge her," nodded Barnabas.
"And heiress to great wealth."