Chichester of all people?"
"Yes, madam."
"Ah! You backed the Viscount, I suppose?"
"No,--I backed myself, Duchess."
"Gracious goodness--"
"But only to beat Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"
"The other favorite. Oh, ridiculous! What odds did they give you?"
"None."
"You mean--oh, dear me!--you actually backed yourself--at even money?"
"Yes, Duchess."
"But you haven't a chance, Barnabas,--not a chance! You didn't bet
much, I hope?"
"Not so much as I intended, madam."
"Pray what was the sum?"
"Twenty thousand pounds."
"Not--each?"
"Yes, madam."
"Forty thousand pounds! Against a favorite! Cleone, my dear,"
said the Duchess, with one of her quick, incisive nods, "Cleone,
this Barnabas of ours is either a madman or a fool! And yet--stoop
down, sir,--here where I can see you,--hum! And yet, Cleone,
there are times when I think he is perhaps a little wiser than he
seems,--nothing is so baffling as simplicity, my dear! If you wished
to be talked about, Barnabas, you have succeeded admirably,--no wonder
all London is laughing over such a preposterous bet. Forty thousand
pounds! Well, it will at least buy you notoriety, and that is next to
fame.
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