Oh yes, indeed, I bet about
everything nowadays,--oh, feverishly, sir, and shall do, until the
race is over, I suppose."
"Indeed, Duchess?"
"Yes. I bet Cleone an Indian shawl against a pair of beaded mittens
that you would be here, to-day, before ten o'clock. So you see, you
are hours before your time, and the mittens are mine. Talking of
Cleone, sir, she's in the orchard. She's also in a shocking
temper--indeed quite cattish, so you'd better stay here and talk to
me. But then--she's alone, and looking vastly handsome, I'll admit,
so, of course, you're dying to be gone--now aren't you?"
"No," Barnabas replied, and turning, bade Peterby drive on to the
house.
"Then you ought to be!" retorted the Duchess, shaking an admonitory
finger at him, yet smiling also as the carriage rolled away.
"Youth can never prefer to listen to a chattering old woman--in a wig!"
"But you see, madam, I need your help, your advice," said Barnabas
gravely.
"Ah, now I love giving people advice! It's so pleasant and--easy!"
"I wish to confide in you,--if I may."
"Confidences are always interesting--especially in the country!"
"Duchess, I--I--have a confession to make.
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