"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to
you that my wife should come to me immaculate--fortune's spoiled
darling though she be,--petted, wooed, pampered though she is,--and,
by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will
some day call you 'wife,'--in spite of all your lovers, and all the
roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,--call them if you will." So
saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my
lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him
once,--frowning a little, panting a little,--a long wondering look
beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then
Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into
his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon
his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.
CHAPTER XXXIX
IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ALMOST HUMAN DUCHESS
"Very dramatic, sir! Though, indeed, you missed an opportunity,
and--gracious heaven, how he frowns!" A woman's voice, sharp,
high-pitched, imperious.
Barnabas started, and glancing up, beheld an ancient lady, very
small and very upright; her cheeks were suspiciously pink, her curls
suspiciously dark and luxuriant, but her eyes were wonderfully young
and handsome; one slender mittened hand rested upon the ivory head
of a stick, and in the other she carried a small fan.
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