"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky—that is Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."
The Duke groaned.
"Horrid, awful slips!"
With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.
"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."
A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician limbs.
With womanly impulse—flinging caste to the winds—Jane caught the majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I have—been—learning—to—bike! There! On the sly!"
The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.
"I am madly enamoured of—my machine."