One night Barty and I dined at a little cagmag he used to frequent, where he fared well—so he said—for a shilling, which included a glass of stout. It was a disgusting little place, but he liked it, and therefore so did I.
Then we called for Mrs. Gibson and Leah, and took them to the Princess's to see Fechter in Ruy Blas, and escorted them home, and had supper with them, a very good supper—nothing ever interfered with the luxuriously hospitable instincts of the Gibsons—and a very merry one. Barty imitated Fechter to the life.
"I 'av ze garrb of a lacquais—you 'av ze sôle of wawn!"
This he said to Mr. Gibson, who was in fits of delight. Mr. Gibson had just come home from his club, and the cards had been propitious; Leah was more reserved than usual, and didn't laugh at Barty, for a wonder, but gazed at him with love in her eyes.
When we left them, Barty took my arm and walked home with me, down Oxford Street and up Southampton Row, and talked of Ruy Blas and Fechter, whom he had often seen in Paris.
Just where a little footway leads from the Row to Queen Square and Great Ormond Street, he stopped and said:
"Bob, do you remember how we tossed up for Leah Gibson at this very spot?"
"I should think I did," said I.
"Well, you had a fair field and no favor, old boy, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, I've long resigned any pretensions, as I wrote you more than a year ago; you may go in and win—si le cœur t'en dit!"