"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale mirror, "I have made up my mind."
"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"
"What is more, I have made up yours."
"To make up the mind of an English Duke," he remarked, with dignity, "requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."
(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane was a chronic sorrow.)
"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag with the least possible delay."
"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare for a shock—a revelation. I have fallen! Not once—but many times."
"Wretched woman!—I beg pardon!—wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett to cover you!"
"I am madly in love with——"
"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear——"