CRAZY TALES

The Duchess of Pomposet was writhing, poor thing, on the horns of a
dilemma. Painful position, very. She was the greatest of great ladies,
full of fire and fashion, and with a purple blush (she was born that
colour) flung bangly arms round the neck of her lord and master. The
unfortunate man was a shocking sufferer, having a bad unearned
increment, and enduring constant pain on account of his back being
broader than his views.

"Pomposet," she cried, resolutely. "Duky darling!"

(When first married she had ventured to apostrophise him as "ducky," but
His Grace thought it _infra dig._, and they compromised by omitting the
vulgar "c.")

"Duky," she said, raising pale distinguished eyes to a Chippendale
mirror, "I have made up my mind."

"Don't," expostulated the trembling peer. "You are so rash!"

"What is more, I have made up yours."

"To make up the mind of an English Duke," he remarked, with dignity,
"requires no ordinary intellect; yet I believe with your feminine
hydraulics you are capable of anything, Jane."

(That this aristocratic rib of his rib should have been named plain Jane
was a chronic sorrow.)

"Don't keep me in suspense," he continued; "in fact, to descend to a
colloquialism, I insist on Your Grace letting the cat out of the bag
with the least possible delay."

"As you will," she replied. "Your blood be on your own coronet. Prepare
for a shock--a revelation. I have fallen! Not once--but many times."

"Wretched woman!--I beg pardon!--wretched Grande Dame! call upon Debrett
to cover you!"

"I am madly in love with----"

"By my taffeta and ermine, I swear----"

"Peace, peace!" said Jane. "Compose yourself, ducky--that is
Plantagenet. Forgive the slip. I am agitated. My mind runs on slips."

The Duke groaned.

"Horrid, awful slips!"

With a countenance of alabaster he tore at his sandy top-knot.

"I have deceived you. I admit it. Stooped to folly."

A supercilious cry rent the air as the Duke staggered on his patrician
limbs.

With womanly impulse--flinging caste to the winds--Jane caught the
majestic form to her palpitating alpaca, and, watering his beloved
features with Duchessy drops, cried in passionate accents, "My King! My
Sensitive Plant! Heavens! It's his unlucky back! Be calm, Plantagenet. I
have--been--learning--to--_bike_! There! On the sly!"

The Duke flapped a reviving toe, and squeezed the august fingers.

"I am madly enamoured of--my machine."

The