"My bird!" she called in dulcet tones, "Clo dear, Cleone my lamb,
here is Barnabas, I found him--under the finger-post, my dove!"
My lady turned, gave the least little start in the world, was
surprised, glad, demure, all in the self-same minute, and taking the
arm of her Tyrant, who had already begun a truly nautical greeting,
led him, forthwith, down the terrace steps, the shining curls at her
temple brushing his shabby coat-sleeve as they came.
"Ha!" cried the Captain, "my dear fellow, we're glad--I say we're
all of us glad to see you. Welcome to 'The Gables,'--eh, Clo?"
And Cleone? With what gracious ease she greeted him! With what clear
eyes she looked at him! With what demure dignity she gave him her
white hand to kiss! As though--for all the world as though she could
ever hope to deceive anything so old and so very knowing as the
ancient finger-post upon the London road!
"Clo dear," said the Duchess, "they're going to talk horses and
racing, and bets and things,--I know they are,--your arm, my love.
Now,--lead on, gentlemen. And now, my dear," she continued, speaking
in Cleone's ear as Barnabas and the Captain moved on, "he
simply--adores you!"
"Really, God-mother--how clever of you!" said Cleone, her eyes brim
full of merriment, "how wonderful you are!"
"Yes, my lady Pert,--he worships you and, consequently, is deceiving
you with every breath he draws!"
"Deceiving me--!"
"With every moment he lives!"
"But--oh, God-mother--!"
"Cleone,--he is not what he seems!"
"Deceiving me?"
"His very name is false!"
"What do you mean? Ah no, no--I'm sure he would not, and yet--oh,
God-mother,--why?"
"Because--hush, Cleone--he's immensely rich, one of the wealthiest
young men in London, and--hush! He would be--loved for himself alone.
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