"And to-day, sir," continued the Captain, "to-day you must come clambering over a gentleman's garden wall to bow and scrape to a—"

"Don't dare to say—another stick, Jack Chumly!" cried the Duchess.

"I repeat, sir, you must come trespassing here, to bow—I say bah! and scrape—"

"I say tush!" interpolated the Duchess demurely.

"To an old—"

"Painted!" suggested the Duchess.

"Hum!" said the Captain, a little hipped, "I say—ha!—lady, sir—"

"With a wig!" added the Duchess.

"And with a young and handsome,—I say a handsome and roguish pair of eyes, sir, that need no artificial aids, mam, nor ever will!"

"Three!" cried the Duchess, clapping her hands. "Oh, Jack! Jack Chumly! you, like myself, improve with age! As a midshipman you were too callow, as a lieutenant much too old and serious, but now that you are a battered and wrinkled young captain, you can pay as pretty a compliment as any other gallant youth. Actually three in one hour, Mr. Beverley."

"Compliments, mam!" snorted the Captain, with an angry flap of his empty sleeve, "Compliments, I scorn 'em! I say pish, mam,—I say bah! I speak only the truth, mam, as well you know."

"Four!" cried the Duchess, with a gurgle of youthful laughter. "Oh, Jack! Jack! I protest, as you sit there you are growing more youthful every minute."

"Gad so, mam! then I'll go before I become a mewling infant—I say a puling brat, mam."

"Stay a moment, Jack. I want you to explain your wishes to Mr. Beverley in regard to Cleone's future."

"Certainly, your Grace—I say by all means, mam."

"Very well, then I'll begin. Listen—both of you. Captain Chumly, being a bachelor and consequently an authority on marriage, has, very properly, chosen whom his ward must marry; he has quite settled and arranged it all, haven't you, Jack?"

"Quite, mam, quite."

"Thus, Cleone is saved all the bother and worry of choosing for herself, you see, Mr. Beverley, for the Captain's choice is fixed,— isn't it, Jack?"

"As a rock, mam—I say as an accurs—ha! an adamantine crag, mam. My ward shall marry my nephew, Viscount Devenham, I am determined on it—"

"Consequently, Mr. Beverley, Cleone will, of course, marry—whomsoever she pleases!"

"Eh, mam? I say, what?—I say—"

"Like the feminine creature she is, Mr. Beverley!"

"Now by Og,—I say by Og and Gog, mam! She is my ward, and so long as I am her guardian she shall obey—"

"I say boh! Jack Chumly,—I say bah!" mocked the Duchess, nodding her head at him. "Cleone is much too clever for you—or any other man, and there is only one woman in this big world who is a match for her, and that woman is—me. I've watched her growing up—day by day—year after year into—just what I was—ages ago,—and to-day she is—almost as beautiful,—and—very nearly as clever!"

"Clever, mam? So she is, but I'm her guardian and—she loves me—I think, and—"

"Of course she loves you, Jack, and winds you round her finger whenever she chooses—"

"Finger, mam! finger indeed! No, mam, I can be firm with her."

"As a candle before the fire, Jack. She can bend you to all the points of your compass. Come now, she brought you here this afternoon against your will,—now didn't she?"

"Ah!—hum!" said the Captain, scratching his chin.

"And coaxed you into your famous Trafalgar uniform, now didn't she?"

"Why as to that, mam, I say—"

"And petted you into staying here much longer than you intended, now didn't she?"

"Which reminds me that it grows late, mam," said the Captain, taking out his watch and frowning at it. "I must find my ward. I say I will bring Cleone to make you her adieux." So saying, he bowed and strode away across the lawn.

"Poor Jack," smiled the Duchess, "he is such a dear, good, obedient child, and he doesn't know it. And so your name is Beverley, hum! Of the Beverleys of Ashleydown? Yet, no,—that branch is extinct, I know. Pray what branch are you? Why, here comes Sir Mortimer Carnaby,—heavens, how handsome he is! And you thrashed him, I think? Oh, I know all about it, sir, and I know—why!"

"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.