Which Relates Sundry Happenings at the Garden Fete

"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.