A brook indeed? Ridiculous!
Therefore this brook must needs give up attempting the impossible,
and betake itself to offensive chuckles and spiteful whisperings,
and would have babbled tales to the Duchess had that remarkable,
ancient lady been versed in the language of brooks. As it was, she
came full upon Master Milo still intent upon the heavens, it is true,
but in such a posture that his buttons stared point-blank and quite
unblushingly towards a certain clump of willows.
"Oh Lud!" exclaimed the Duchess, starting back, "dear me, what a
strange little boy! What do you want here, little man?"
Milo of Crotona turned and--looked at her. And though his face was
as cherubic as ever, there was haughty reproof in every button.
"Who are you?" demanded the Duchess; "oh, gracious me, what a pretty
child!"
Surely no cherub--especially one in such knowing top-boots--could be
reasonably expected to put up with this! Master Milo's innocent brow
clouded suddenly, and the expression of his glittering buttons grew
positively murderous.
"I'm Viscount Devenham's con-fee-dential groom, mam, I am!" said he
coldly, and with his most superb air.
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