I'll have him painted back
again next week--and the hare."
So, side by side, they mounted the worn steps of the inn, and side
by side they presently entered that long, panelled room where, once
on a time, they had fronted each other with clenched fists. Before
the hearth stood John Barty's favorite arm-chair and into this,
after some little demur, Barnabas sank, and stretched out his booted
legs to the fire.
"Why, father," said he, lolling back luxuriously, "I thought you
never liked cushions?"
"No more I do, Barnabas. She put them there for you."
"She, father?"
"One o' the maids, lad, one o' the maids and--and there y'are!"
"And now, father, you were telling me of the Lady Cleone--"
"No, I weren't, Barnabas," answered his father hastily and turning
to select a pipe from the sheaf on the mantel-shelf, "not me, lad,
not me!"
"Why, yes, you spoke of her--in the road."
"In the road? Oh, ah--might ha' spoke of her--in the road, lad."
"Well--do you--know her, father?"
"Know her?" repeated John, as though asking himself the question,
and staring very hard at the pipe in his hand, "do I know her--why,
yes--oh, yes, I know her, Barnabas.
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