Thus a fortnight has elapsed, and to-night the star of Barnabas
Beverley, Esquire, has indeed attained its grand climacteric, for
to-night he is to eat and drink with ROYALTY, and the Fashionable
World is to do him honor.
And yet, as he stands before his mirror, undergoing the ordeal of
dressing, he would appear almost careless of his approaching triumph;
his brow is overcast, his cheek a little thinner and paler than of
yore, and he regards his resplendent image in the mirror with
lack-lustre eyes.
"Your cravat, sir," says Peterby, retreating a few paces and with
his head to one side the better to observe its effect, "your cravat
is, I fear, a trifle too redundant in its lower folds, and a little
severe, perhaps--"
"It is excellent, John! And you say--there is still no letter
from--from Hawkhurst?"
"No, sir, none," answered Peterby abstractedly, and leaning forward
to administer a gentle pull to the flowered waistcoat. "This coat,
sir, is very well, I think, and yet--y-e-es, perhaps it might be a
shade higher in the collar, and a thought tighter at the waist. Still,
it is very well on the whole, and these flattened revers are an
innovation that will be quite the vogue before the week is out. You
are satisfied with the coat, I hope, sir?"
"Perfectly, John, and--should a letter come while I am at the
banquet you will send it on--at once, John."
"At once, sir!" nodded Peterby, crouching down to view his young
master's shapely legs in profile. "Mr. Brummell was highly esteemed
for his loop and button at the ankle, sir, but I think our ribbon is
better, and less conspicuous, that alone should cause a sensation."
"Unless, John," sighed Barnabas, "unless I receive a word to-night I
shall drive down to Hawkhurst as soon as I can get away, so have the
curricle and grays ready, will you?"
"Yes, sir. Pardon me one moment, there is a wrinkle in your left
stocking, silk stockings are very apt to--"
But here the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted themselves
quivering on the threshold to announce:-"Viscount Devenham!"
He still carried his arm in a sling, but, excepting this, the
Viscount was himself again, Bright-eyed, smiling and debonair. But
now, as Peterby withdrew, and Barnabas turned to greet him, gravely
polite--he hesitated, frowned, and seemed a little at a loss.
"Egad!" said he ruefully, "it seems a deuce of a time since we saw
each other, Beverley."
"A fortnight!" said Barnabas.
"And it's been a busy fortnight for both of us, from what I hear."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Especially for--you."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Beverley," said he, staring very hard at the toe of his varnished
shoe, "do you remember the white-haired man we met, who called
himself an Apostle of Peace?"
"Yes, Viscount."