All this, and more, Barnabas noted (since he, for one, was no casual
observer) as he stood there in the sunlight with the little shoe
upon his palm, while the ham and eggs languished forgotten and the
coffee grew cold, for how might they hope to vie with this that had
lain so lonely, so neglected and--so exactly in the middle of the
window-seat?
Now presently, as Barnabas stood thus lost in contemplation of this
shoe, he was aware of Peterby entering behind him, and instinctively
made as if to hide the shoe in his bosom, but he checked the impulse,
turned, and glancing at Peterby, saw that his usually grave lips were
quivering oddly at the corners, and that he kept his gaze fixed
pertinaciously upon the coffee-pot; whereat the pale cheek of
Barnabas grew suffused again, and stepping forward, he laid the
little shoe upon the table.
"John," said he, pointing to it, "have you ever seen this before?"
"Why, sir," replied Peterby, regarding the little shoe with brow of
frowning portent, "I think I have."
"And pray," continued Barnabas (asking a perfectly unnecessary
question), "whose is it, do you suppose?"
"Sir," answered John, still grave of mouth and solemn of eye,
"to the best of my belief it belongs to the Lady Cleone Meredith.
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