"And yet," said Barnabas, with his gaze still turned ceiling-wards,
"I would have you—even more than this, Peterby."
"More, sir?"
"I would have you, sometimes, forget that you are only 'the best valet in the world,' and remember that you are—a man: one in whom I can confide; one who has lived in this great world, and felt, and suffered, and who can therefore advise me; one I may trust to in an emergency; for London is a very big place, they tell me, and my friends are few—or none—and—do you understand me, Peterby?"
"Sir," said Peterby in an altered tone, "I think I do."
"Then—sit down, John, and let us talk."
With a murmur of thanks Peterby drew up a chair and sat watching
Barnabas with his shrewd eyes.
"You will remember," began Barnabas, staring up at the ceiling again, "that when I engaged you I told you that I intended to—hum! to—cut a figure in the fashionable world?"
"Yes, sir; and I told you that,—after what happened in a certain wood,—it was practically impossible."
"You mean because I thrashed a scoundrel?"
"I mean because you knocked down a friend of the Prince Regent."