I BEHAVE LIKE A GOOSE
“Coachman!” I cried. The driver reined in his horse. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, my lady.”
“Home? To whose home? To my home?”
“To His Grace’s, my lady—Chelmsford House.”
He called me “my lady,” and spoke of “His Grace,” and of Chelmsford House. Then the brown man must be the Duke of Chelmsford? No woman can suddenly awake to the fact that she has been in the society of a real live duke—and such a duke—without becoming conscious of a singular something. I withdrew my head from the window with a sort of spasmodic rush.
“Are you the Duke of Chelmsford?”
“I am; and hope that you will shortly be the Duchess.”
The Duchess! the Duchess of Chelmsford! the consort of the richest duke in the world, and, as my own eyes told me—the very handsomest; the queen of Engl
