"And what of that?"

"And he has your promise!"

"I never spoke—"

"But the rose did!"

"The rose will fade and wither—"

"But it bears your promise—"

"I gave no promise, and—and—oh, why did you—look at me!"

"Look at you?"

"Why did you frown at me?"

"Why did you give him the rose?"

"Because it was so my pleasure. Why did you frown at me with eyes like—like a devil's?"

"I wanted to kill him—then!"

"And now?"

"Now, I wish him well of his bargain, and my thanks are due to him."

"Why?"

"Because, without knowing it, he has taught me what women are."

"What do you mean?"

"I—loved you, Cleone. To me you were one apart—holy, immaculate—"

"Yes?" said Cleone very softly.

"And I find you—"

"Only a—woman, sir,—who will not be watched, and frowned at, and spied upon."

"—a heartless coquette—" said Barnabas.

"—who despises eavesdroppers, and will not be spied upon, or frowned at!"

"I did not spy upon you," cried Barnabas, stung at last, "or if I did,

God knows it was well intended."

"How, sir?"

"I remembered the last time we three were together,—in Annersley Wood." Here my lady shivered and hid her face. "And now, you gave him the rose! Do you want the love of this man, Cleone?"

"There is only one man in all the world I despise more, and his name is—Barnabas," said she, without looking up.

"So you—despise me, Cleone?"

"Yes—Barnabas."

"And I came here to tell you that I—loved you—to ask you to be my wife—"

"And looked at me with Devil's eyes—"

"Because you were mine, and because he—"

"Yours, Barnabas? I never said so."

"Because I loved you—worshipped you, and because—"

"Because you were—jealous, Barnabas!"

"Because I would have my wife immaculate—"

"But I am not your—wife."

"No," said Barnabas, frowning, "she must be immaculate."

Now when he said this he heard her draw a long, quivering sigh, and with the sigh she rose to her feet and faced him, and her eyes were wide and very bright, and the fan she held snapped suddenly across in her white fingers.

"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip now, your cheek should burn again."

"But I should not ask you to kiss it,—this time!" said Barnabas.

"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you—for a creeping spy, a fool, a coward—a maligner of women. Oh, go away,—pray go. Leave me, lest I stifle."

But now, seeing the flaming scorn of him in her eyes, in the passionate quiver of her hands, he grew afraid, cowed by her very womanhood.

"Indeed," he stammered, "you are unjust. I—I did not mean—"

"Go!" said she, cold as ice, "get back over the wall. Oh! I saw you climb over like a—thief! Go away, before I call for help—before I call the grooms and stable-boys to whip you out into the road where you belong—go, I say!" And frowning now, she stamped her foot, and pointed to the wall. Then Barnabas laughed softty, savagely, and, reaching out, caught her up in his long arms and crushed her to him.

"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to you that my wife should come to me immaculate—fortune's spoiled darling though she be,—petted, wooed, pampered though she is,—and, by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will some day call you 'wife,'—in spite of all your lovers, and all the roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,—call them if you will." So saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him once,—frowning a little, panting a little,—a long wondering look beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.

CHAPTER XXXIX

IN WHICH THE PATIENT READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ALMOST HUMAN DUCHESS

"Very dramatic, sir! Though, indeed, you missed an opportunity, and—gracious heaven, how he frowns!" A woman's voice, sharp, high-pitched, imperious.