He had yet to decide which of them was the more red-faced; Barnaby, of course, was as pallid as ever. Miss Chevalier’s cheeks looked perfectly lovely, cherry-red; Ford looked more like the George Robins variety, a blotchy red that looked like he was about to burst out in spattergroit pustules. Poor boy.
“‘Tis just a leg,” Barnaby offered affably, in a thoughtless but heartfelt attempt to cheer her up. He felt that was perhaps not the custom – but he bared his legs every day, with short breeches and tight hose that gave the human body some proper form.
“And pray let him help,” he insisted, throwing Ford primly under the carriage-wheels. “The dress was his fault.”
“‘Tis just a leg,” Barnaby offered affably, in a thoughtless but heartfelt attempt to cheer her up. He felt that was perhaps not the custom – but he bared his legs every day, with short breeches and tight hose that gave the human body some proper form.
“And pray let him help,” he insisted, throwing Ford primly under the carriage-wheels. “The dress was his fault.”
