"Indeed, sir," said the Viscount, in a tone of faint surprise, and
beckoning a passing ostler, ordered out his curricle.
"As I say," repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to search for his
whisker again, "I have a friend, my Lord--"
"Congratulate you," murmured the Viscount, pulling at his glove.
"A friend who has frequently spoken of your Lordship--"
"Very kind of him!" murmured the Viscount.
"And though, my Lord, though my name is not familiar, I think you
will remember his; the name of my friend is "--here Mr. Smivvle,
having at length discovered his whisker, gave it a fierce twirl,--
"Ronald Barrymaine."
The Viscount's smooth brow remained unclouded, only the glove tore
in his fingers; so he smiled, shook his head, and drawing it off,
tossed it away.
"Hum?" said he, "I seem to have heard some such name--somewhere or
other--ah! there's my Imp at last, as tight and smart as they make
'em, eh, Bev? Well, good-by, my dear fellow, I shan't forget Friday
next." So saying, the Viscount shook hands, climbed into his curricle,
and, with a flourish of his whip, was off and away in a moment.
"A fine young fellow, that!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle; "yes, sir,
regular out-and-outer, a Bang up! by heaven, a Blood, sir! a Tippy!
a Go! a regular Dash! High, sir, high, damned high, like my friend
Barrymaine,--indeed, you may have remarked a similarity between 'em,
sir?"
"You forget, I have never met your friend," said Barnabas.
"Ah, to be sure, a great pity! You'd like him, for Barrymaine is a
cursed fine fellow in spite of the Jews, dammem! yes,--you ought to
know my friend, sir."
"I should be glad to," said Barnabas.
"Would you though, would you indeed, sir? Nothing simpler; call a
chaise! Stay though, poor Barry's not himself to-day, under a cloud,
sir. Youthful prodigalities are apt to bring worries in their
train--chiefly in the shape of Jews, sir, and devilish bad shapes too!
Better wait a day--say to-morrow, or Thursday--or even Friday would
do."
"Let it be Saturday," said Barnabas.
"Saturday by all means, sir, I'll give myself the pleasure of
calling upon you."
"St. James's Square," said Barnabas, "number five."
But now Peterby, who had been eyeing Mr. Smivvle very much askance,
ventured to step forward.
"Sir," said he, "may I remind you of your appointment?"
"I hadn't forgotten, Peterby; and good day, Mr. Smivvle."
"Au revoir, sir, delighted to have had the happiness. If you should
chance ever to be in Worcestershire, the Hall is open to you. Good
afternoon, sir!" And so, with a prodigious flourish of the hat,
Mr. Smivvle bowed, smiled, and swaggered off. Then, as he turned to
follow Peterby into the inn, Barnabas must needs pause to glance
towards the spot where lay the Viscount's torn glove.