"My friend
Mr. Beverley--Sir George Annersley. Mr. Beverley--Major Piper."
"A friend of her Grace is always welcome here, sir," said Sir George,
extending a mottled hand.
"Delighted!" smiled the Major, saluting him in turn. "Haw!"
"But what in the world brings you here, Beverley?" inquired the
Marquis.
"I do," returned his great-aunt. "Many a man has climbed a wall on
my account before to-day, Marquis, and remember I'm only
just--seventy-one, and growing younger every hour,--now am I not,
Major?"
"Haw!--Precisely! Not a doubt, y' Grace. Soul and honor! Haw!"
"Marquis--your arm, Mr. Beverley--yours! Now, Sir George, show us
the way to the marquee; I'm dying for a dish of tea, I vow I am!"
Thus, beneath the protecting wing of a Duchess was Barnabas given
his first taste of Quality and Blood. Which last, though blue beyond
all shadow of doubt, yet manifested itself in divers quite ordinary
ways as,--in complexions of cream and roses; in skins sallow and
wrinkled; in noses haughtily Roman or patricianly Greek, in noses
mottled and unclassically uplifted; in black hair, white hair, yellow,
brown, and red hair;--such combinations as he had seen many and many
a time on village greens, and at country wakes and fairs.
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