"I could act something, perhaps," she said. The Duchess jumped at her offer.
"Booked!" she declared. "Stop that man clattering past, and tell him I want him to sing John Peel. And, Cherry, you'll do for a comic song. You're men, and it doesn't matter about your voices, so long as you wear red coats."
The young man she was ordering pushed away his cup with an injured air. A murmur of—"Delighted, I'm sure. Delighted!" floated up from the street.
"You know I have only one song," he said, "and that is—The Broken Heart."
"Well," she said unfeelingly, "you can make it comic."
"Are you coming?" said Barnaby. He was waiting; some of them had already started. The girl caught up her gloves and whip.
"Good-bye, all of you," said the Duchess. "I beg you'll remember your obligations. Barnaby, the thing is at eight. Call down to John Peel and tell him.... Whatever you do, don't let my performer come to any harm."
"I will not quit her side for a moment," he promised, and the Duchess shook her head at him as they ran downstairs.
He was laughing as he put her up in the saddle.
"It appears you don't know how to manage a husband," he said. "Don't look so sorrowful. I don't mind them.—And the general public is anxious to lend a hand."