"Ah! is that you, Mr. Beverley?" sighed the Duchess, looking up from
her embroidery, which, like herself, was very elaborate, very dainty,
and very small. "You find me here, sitting by the wayside,--and a
very desolate figure I must look, I'm sure,--you find me here because
I have been driven away by the tantrums of an undutiful god-daughter,
and the barbarity of a bloodthirsty buccaneer. I mean the Captain,
of course. And all because I had the forethought to tell Cleone her
nose was red,--which it was,--sunburn you know, and because I
remarked that the Captain was growing as rotund as a Frenchman,
which he is,--I mean fat, of course. All Frenchmen are fat--at least
some are. And then he will wear such a shabby old coat! So here I am,
Mr. Beverley, very lonely and very sad, but industrious you see,
quite as busy as Penelope, who used to spin webs all day long,--which
sounds as though she were a spider instead of a classical lady who
used to undo them again at night,--I mean the webs, not the spiders.
But, indeed, you're very silent, Mr. Beverley, though I'm glad to
see you are here so well to time."
"To time, madam?"
"Because, you see, I 've won my bet.
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