(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——"
"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.