"The Viscount spoke of it, I remember," said Barnabas, absently.
"Viscount, sir--not--Viscount Devenham?"
"Yes."
Here Mr. Smivvle whistled softly, took off the curly-brimmed hat,
looked at it, and put it on again at a more rakish angle than ever.
"Didn't happen to mention my name, did he--Smivvle, sir?"
"No."
"Nor Dig, perhaps?"
"No, sir."
"Remarkable--hum!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head;
"but I'm ready to lay you odds that he did speak of my friend Barry.
I may say my bosom companion--a Mr. Ronald Barrymaine, sir."
"Ronald Barrymaine," repeated Barnabas, trying the new point of his
pen upon his thumb-nail, yet conscious of the speaker's keen glance,
none the less. "No, he did not."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle.
"Why so?"
"Because my friend Barrymaine was particularly intimate with his
Lordship, before he fell among the Jews, dammem! My friend Barry, sir,
was a dasher, by George! a regular red-hot tearer, by heaven! a Go,
sir, a Tippy, a bang up Blood, and would be still if it were not for
the Jews--curse 'em!"
"And is Mr. Barrymaine still a friend of yours?"
At this Mr. Smivvle took off his hat again, clapped it to his bosom,
and bowed.
"Sir," said he, "for weal or woe, in shadow or shine, the hand of a
Smivvle, once given, is given for good."
As he spoke, Mr. Smivvle stretched out the member in question, which
Barnabas observed was none too clean.
"The hand of a Smivvle, sir," pursued that gentleman, "the hand of a
Smivvle is never withdrawn either on account of adversity, plague,
poverty, pestilence, or Jews--dammem! As for my friend Barrymaine;
but, perhaps, you are acquainted with him, sir."
"No," answered Barnabas.
"Ah! a noble fellow, sir! Heroic youth, blood, birth, and breeding
to his finger-tips, sir. But he is, above all else, a brother to
a--a sister, sir. Ah! what a creature! Fair, sir? fair as the
immortal Helena! Proud, sir? proud as an arch-duchess! Handsome, sir?
handsome, sir, as--as--oh, dammit, words fail me; but go, sir, go
and ransack Olympus, and you couldn't match her, 'pon my soul! Diana,
sir? Diana was a frump! Venus? Venus was a dowdy hoyden, by George!
and as for the ox-eyed Juno, she was a positive cow to this young
beauty! And then--her heart, sir!"
"Well, what of it?" inquired Barnabas, rather sharply.
"Utterly devoted--beats only for my friend--"
"You mean her brother?"
"I mean her brother, yes, sir; though I have heard a rumor that
Sir Mortimer Carnaby--"
"Pooh!" said Barnabas.
"With pleasure, sir; but the fact remains that it was partly on his
account, and partly because of another, that she was dragged away
from London--"
"What other?"
"Well, let us say--H.R.H."