"Then," said Barnabas, somewhat taken aback, "you'll know he
deserved it, madam."
"Mm! Have you met him since?"
"No, indeed, nor have I any desire to!"
"Oh, but you must," said the Duchess, and catching Sir Mortimer's
gaze, she smiled and beckoned him, and next moment he was bowing
before her. "My dear Sir Mortimer," said she, "I don't think you are
acquainted with my friend, Mr. Beverley?"
"No," answered Sir Mortimer with a perfunctory glance at Barnabas.
"Ah! I thought not. Mr. Beverley--Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"Honored, sir," said Sir Mortimer, as they bowed.
"Mr. Beverley is, I believe, an opponent of yours, Sir Mortimer?"
pursued the Duchess, with her placid smile.
"An opponent! indeed, your Grace?" said he, favoring Barnabas with
another careless glance.
"I mean--in the race, of course," smiled the Duchess. "But oh, happy
man! So you have been blessed also?"
"How, Duchess?"
"I see you wear Cleone's favor,--you've been admitted to the Order
of the Rose, like all the others." And the Duchess tittered.
"Others, your Grace! What others?"
"Oh, sir, their name is Legion. There's Jerningham, and young Denton,
and Snelgrove, and Ensign D'Arcy, and hosts beside. Lud, Sir Mortimer,
where are your eyes? Look there! and there! and there again!" And,
with little darting movements of her fan, she indicated certain
young gentlemen, who strolled to and fro upon the lawn; now, in the
lapel of each of their coats was a single, red rose. "There's safety
in numbers, and Cleone was always cautious!" said the Duchess, and
tittered again.
Sir Mortimer glanced from those blooms to the flower in his own coat,
and his cheek grew darkly red, and his mouth took on a cruel look.
"Ah, Duchess," he smiled, "it seems our fair Cleone has an original
idea of humor,--very quaint, upon my soul!" And so he laughed, and
bowing, turned away.
"Now--watch!" said the Duchess, "there!" As she spoke, Sir Mortimer
paused, and with a sudden fierce gesture tore the rose from his coat
and tossed it away. "Now really," said the Duchess, leaning back and
fanning herself placidly, "I think that was vastly clever of me; you
should be grateful, sir, and so should Cleone--hush!--here she comes,
at last."
"Where?" inquired Barnabas, glancing up hastily.
"Ssh! behind us--on the other side of the hedge--clever minx!"
"Why then--"
"Sit still, sir--hush, I say!"
"So that is the reason," said Cleone's clear voice, speaking within
a yard of them, "that is why you dislike Mr. Beverley?"
"Yes, and because of his presumption!" said a second voice, at the
sound of which Barnabas flushed and started angrily, whereupon the
Duchess instantly hooked him by the buttonhole again.
"His presumption in what, Mr. Chichester?"
"In his determined pursuit of you."