Barnaby nodded to her cheerfully as she came into the breakfast room. He was sitting on the window seat, and the rest of them were at breakfast. Whether or no they had been attacking him, he did not look cast down.
"Well, how are you?" he said. "Good girl, you are coming hunting. I brought everything, didn't I? They nearly left out your boots."
"Look out and see who that is passing," said the Duchess. Someone was cracking a whip below. He flung up the window, and she came round herself.
"What's the matter?" she said. "Is it a serenade, or do you want some coffee?"
A man with a long nose and a grizzling moustache had halted on his way up the street. Two or three others had left him and were trotting on.
"Have you heard the latest?" he said. "Richard Cummerbatch is drawing all the covers like a raging maniac, roaring for his wife. Her party went back in two cars from the ball last night, and each lot thought she had gone in the other. It appears she's bolted."
"Upon my word," said the Duchess, "if you are going to shout scandal at the top of your voice I shall have to put up my shutters. She is just over your head, Major. She had nowhere to go, since her party went off without her; so I took her in."
"Hey? What?" he said, looking up as quickly as if the lady were a chimney-pot that might fall on him. "—Keep still, horse! You don't say so?"
His face was blank for an instant, but he soon recovered from his disappointment. His well of gossip had not run dry.
Cocking his head on one side like a mischievous old bird, he began on another tack.