"Oh Lud, Barnabas,—what a selfish creature you are!"
"Selfish, madam?"
"A perfect—wretch!"
"Wretch?" said Barnabas, staring.
"Wretch!" nodded the Duchess, frowning, "and pray don't echo my words, sir. I say you are a preposterously selfish wretch, and—so you are!"
"But, madam, why? What do you mean?"
"I mean that you should try to forget yourself occasionally and think of others—me, for instance; look at me—a solitary old woman—in a wig!"
"You, Duchess?"
"Me, Barnabas. And this brings me to fourthly—what of me, sir? —what of me?"
"But, madam, I—"
"And this brings me to fifthly and sixthly and seventhly—my hopes, and dreams, and plans, sir—are they all to be broken, spoiled, ruined by your hatefully selfish whims, sir—hush, not a word!"
"But, Duchess, indeed I don't—"
"Hush, sir, and listen to me. There are days when my wig rebukes me, sir, and my rouge-pot stares me out of countenance; yes, indeed, I sometimes begin to feel almost—middle-aged and, at such times, I grow a little lonely. Heaven, sir, doubtless to some wise end, has always denied me that which is a woman's abiding joy or shame—I mean a child, sir, and as the years creep on, one is apt to be a little solitary, now and then, and at such times I feel the need of a son—so I have determined to adopt you, Barnabas—today! Now! This minute! Not a word, sir, my mind is made up!"
"But," stammered Barnabas, "but, madam, I—I beg you to consider—my father—"
"Is a publican and probably a sinner, Barnabas. I may be a sinner too, perhaps—y-e-s, I fear I am, occasionally. But then I am also a Duchess, and it is far wiser in a man to be the adopted son of a sinful Duchess than the selfish son of a sinful publican, yes indeed."
"But I, madam, what can I say? Dear Duchess, I—the honor you would do me—" floundered poor Barnabas, "believe me if—if—"
"Not another word!" the Duchess interposed, "it is quite settled. As my adopted son Society shall receive you on bended knees, with open arms—I'll see to that! All London shall welcome you, for though I'm old and wear a wig, I'm very much alive, and Society knows it. So no more talk of horses, or farms, or inns, Barnabas; my mind, as I say, is quite made up and—"
"But, madam," said Barnabas gently, "so is mine."
"Ha—indeed, sir—well?"
"Well, madam, today I go to my father."
"Ah!" sighed the Duchess.
"Though indeed I thank you humbly for—your condescension."
"Hum!" said the Duchess.
"And honor you most sincerely for—for—"
"Oh?" said the Duchess, softly.
"And most truly love and reverence you for your womanliness."
"Oh!" said the Duchess again, this time very softly indeed, and with her bright eyes more youthful than ever.
"Nevertheless," pursued Barnabas a little ponderously, "my father is my father, and I count it more honorable to be his son than to live an amateur gentleman and the friend of princes."
"Quite so," nodded the Duchess, "highly filial and very pious, oh, indeed, most righteous and laudable, but—there remains an eighthly, Barnabas."
"And pray, madam, what may that be?"
"What of Cleone?"
Now when the Duchess said this, Barnabas turned away to the window and leaning his head in his hands, was silent awhile.
"Cleone!" he sighed at last, "ah, yes—Cleone!"
"You love her, I suppose?"
"So much—so very much that she shall never marry an innkeeper's son, or a discredited—"
"Bah!" exclaimed the Duchess.
"Madam?"
"Don't be so hatefully proud, Barnabas."
"Proud, madam—I?"
"Cruelly, wickedly, hatefully proud! Oh, dear me! what a superbly virtuous, heroic fool you are, Barnabas. When you met her at the crossroads, for instance—oh, I know all about it—when you had her there—in your arms, why didn't you—run off with her and marry her, as any ordinary human man would have done? Dear heaven, it would have been so deliciously romantic! And—such an easy way out of it!"
