"A friend of her Grace is always welcome here, sir," said Sir George, extending a mottled hand.

"Delighted!" smiled the Major, saluting him in turn. "Haw!"

"But what in the world brings you here, Beverley?" inquired the

Marquis.

"I do," returned his great-aunt. "Many a man has climbed a wall on my account before to-day, Marquis, and remember I'm only just—seventy-one, and growing younger every hour,—now am I not, Major?"

"Haw!—Precisely! Not a doubt, y' Grace. Soul and honor! Haw!"

"Marquis—your arm, Mr. Beverley—yours! Now, Sir George, show us the way to the marquee; I'm dying for a dish of tea, I vow I am!"

Thus, beneath the protecting wing of a Duchess was Barnabas given his first taste of Quality and Blood. Which last, though blue beyond all shadow of doubt, yet manifested itself in divers quite ordinary ways as,—in complexions of cream and roses; in skins sallow and wrinkled; in noses haughtily Roman or patricianly Greek, in noses mottled and unclassically uplifted; in black hair, white hair, yellow, brown, and red hair;—such combinations as he had seen many and many a time on village greens, and at country wakes and fairs. Yes, all was the same, and yet—how vastly different! For here voices were softly modulated, arms and hands gracefully borne, heads carried high, movement itself an artful science. Here eyes were raised or lowered with studied effect; beautiful shoulders, gracefully shrugged, became dimpled and irresistible; faces with perfect profiles were always—in profile. Here, indeed, Age and Homeliness went clothed in magnificence, and Youth and Beauty walked hand in hand with Elegance; while everywhere was a graceful ease that had been learned and studied with the Catechism. Barnabas was in a world of silks and satins and glittering gems, of broadcloth and fine linen, where such things are paramount and must be lived up to; a world where the friendship of a Duchess may transform a nobody into a SOMEBODY, to be bowed to by the most elaborate shirtfronts, curtsied to by the haughtiest of turbans, and found worthy of the homage of bewitching eyes, seductive dimples, and entrancing profiles.

In a word, Barnabas had attained—even unto the World of Fashion.

CHAPTER XL

WHICH RELATES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS AT THE GARDEN FÊTE

"Gad, Beverley! how the deuce did y' do it?"

"Do what, Marquis?"

"Charm the Serpent! Tame the Dragon!"

"Dragon?"

"Make such a conquest of her Graceless Grace of Camberhurst, my great-aunt? I didn't know you were even acquainted,—how long have you known her?"

"About an hour," said Barnabas.

"Eh—an hour? But, my dear fellow, you came to see her—over the wall, you know,—she said so, and—"

"She said so, yes, Marquis, but—"

"But? Oh, I see! Ah, to be sure! She is my great-aunt, of course, and my great-aunt, Beverley, generally thinks, and does, and says—exactly what she pleases. Begad! you never can tell what she'll be up to next,—consequently every one is afraid of her, even those high goddesses of the beau monde, those exclusive grandes dames, my Ladies Castlereagh, Jersey, Cowper and the rest of 'em—they're all afraid of my small great-aunt, and no wonder! You see, she's old—older than she looks, and—with a perfectly diabolical memory! She knows not only all their own peccadillos, but the sins of their great-grandmothers as well. She fears nothing on the earth, or under the earth, and respects no one—not even me. Only about half an hour ago she informed me that I was a—well, she told me precisely what I was,—and she can be painfully blunt, Beverley,—just because Cleone happens to have refused me again."

"Again?" said Barnabas inquiringly.

"Oh, yes! She does it regularly. Begad! she's refused me so often that it's grown into a kind of formula with us now. I say, 'Cleone, do!' and she answers, 'Bob, don't!' But even that's something,—lots of 'em haven't got so far as that with her."

"Sir Mortimer Carnaby, for instance!" said Barnabas, biting his lip.

"Hum!" said the Marquis dubiously, deftly re-settling his cravat, "and what of—yourself, Beverley?"

"I have asked her—only twice, I think."

"Ah, and she—refused you?"

"No," sighed Barnabas, "she told me she—despised me."

"Did she so? Give me your hand—I didn't think you were so strong in the running. With Cleone's sort there's always hope so long as she isn't sweet and graciously indifferent."

"Pray," said Barnabas suddenly, "pray where did you get that rose,

Marquis?"

"This? Oh, she gave it to me."

"Cleone?"

"Of course."

"But—I thought she'd refused you?"

"Oh, yes—so she did; but that's just like Cleone, frowning one moment, smiling the next—April, you know."

"And did she—kiss it first?"

"Kiss it? Why—deuce take me, now I come to think of it,—so she did,—at least—What now, Beverley?"

"I'm—going!" said Barnabas.

"Going? Where?"

"Back—over the wall!"

"Eh!—run away, is it?"

"As far," said Barnabas, scowling, "as far as possible. Good-by, Marquis!" And so he turned and strode away, while the Marquis stared after him, open-mouthed. But as he went, Barnabas heard a voice calling his name, and looking round, beheld Captain Chumly coming towards him. A gallant figure he made (despite grizzled hair and empty sleeve), in all the bravery of his white silk stockings, and famous Trafalgar coat, which, though a little tarnished as to epaulettes and facings, nevertheless bore witness to the Bo'sun's diligent care; he was, indeed, from the crown of his cocked hat down to his broad, silver shoe-buckles, the very pattern of what a post-captain of Lord Nelson should be.

"Eh, sir!" he exclaimed, with his hand outstretched in greeting, "are ye blind, I say are ye blind and deaf? Didn't you hear her Grace hailing you? Didn't ye see me signal you to 'bring to'?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas, grasping the proffered hand.

"Oho!" said the Captain, surveying Barnabas from head to foot, "so you've got 'em on, I see, and vastly different you look in your fine feathers. But you can sink me,—I say you can scuttle and sink me if I don't prefer you in your homespun! You'll be spelling your name with as many unnecessary letters, and twirls, and flourishes as you can clap in, nowadays, I'll warrant."

"Jack Chumly, don't bully the boy!" said a voice near by; and looking thitherward, Barnabas beheld the Duchess seated at a small table beneath a shady tree, and further screened by a tall hedge; a secluded corner, far removed from the throng, albeit a most excellent place for purposes of observation, commanding as it did a wide view of lawns and terraces. "As for you, Mr. Beverley," continued the Duchess, with her most imperious air, "you may bring a seat—here, beside me,—and help the Captain to amuse me."

"Madam," said Barnabas, his bow very solemn and very deep, "I am about to leave, and—with your permission—I—"

"You have my permission to—sit here beside me, sir. So! A dish of tea? No? Ah, well—we were just talking of you; the Captain was describing how he first met you—"

"Bowing to a gate-post, mam,—on my word as a sailor and a Christian, it was a gate-post,—I say, an accurs—a confoundedly rotten old stick of a gate-post."

"I remember," sighed Barnabas.