Part 31 (1/2)
”Dear lady,” said he very gently, ”if I offended you a while ago--forgive me--Cleone.”
”Indeed,” said she, looking away from him; ”it would seem I must be always forgiving you, Mr. Beverley.”
”Why, surely it is a woman's privilege to forgive, Cleone--and my name--”
”And a man's prerogative to be forgiven, I suppose, Mr. Beverley.”
”When he repents as I do, Cleone; and my--”
”Oh! I forgive you,” she sighed.
”Yet you still walk very fast.”
”It must be nearly ten o'clock.”
”I suppose so,” said Barnabas, ”and you will, naturally, be anxious to reach home again.”
”Home,” she said bitterly; ”I have no home.”
”But--”
”I live in a gaol--a prison. Yes, a hateful, hateful prison, watched by a one-legged gaoler, and guarded by a one-armed tyrant--yes, a tyrant!” Here, having stopped to stamp her foot, she walked on faster than ever.
”Can you possibly mean old Jerry and the Captain?”
Here my lady paused in her quick walk, and even condescended to look at Barnabas.
”Do you happen to know them too, sir?”
”Yes; and my name is--”
”Perhaps you met them also this morning, sir?”
”Yes; and my--”
”Indeed,” said she, with curling lip; ”this has been quite an eventful day for you.”
”On the whole, I think it has; and may I remind you that my--”
”Perhaps you don't believe me when I say he is a tyrant?”
”Hum,” said Barnabas.
”You don't, do you?”
”Why, I'm afraid not,” he admitted.
”I'm nineteen!” said she, standing very erect.
”I should have judged you a little older,” said Barnabas.