"Yes, I must go, and yet--it is so very soon, Cleone!"
"Yes, it is dreadfully soon, Barnabas. But what does he mean by
saying that people are talking of you to your disparagement? How
dare they? Why should they?"
"I think because I, a rank outsider, ventured to lay a wager against
Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"Do you mean you bet him that you would win the race, Barnabas?"
"No,--only that I would beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"But, oh Barnabas,--he _is_ the race! Surely you know he and the
Viscount are favorites?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then you do think you can win?"
"I mean to try--very hard!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown a
little.
"And I begin to think," said Cleone, struck by his resolute eyes and
indomitable mouth, "oh, Barnabas--I begin to think you--almost may."
"And if I did?"
"Then I should be very--proud of you."
"And if I lost?"
"Then you would be--"
"Yes?"
"Just--"
"Yes, Cleone?"
"My, Barnabas! Ah, no, no!" she whispered suddenly, "you are
crushing me--dreadfully, and besides, that boy has terribly sharp
eyes!" and Cleone nodded to where Master Milo stood, some distance
away, with his innocent orbs lifted pensively towards the heavens,
more like a cherub than ever.
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