"Quite sure."
"Ah, well—mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as 'Dig,' at your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals, damn scoundrels,—by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by George!—eat you alive. Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little place in Worcestershire—King's Heath,—know it, perhaps? No? Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks, larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic—though devilish draughty, upon my soul and honor!"
Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand, Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table, from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.
"Sir," said Barnabas without looking up, "pray excuse the blot, the pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see."
Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and, having found it, tugged it viciously.
"Blot, sir!" he exclaimed loudly; "now, upon my soul and honor—what blot, sir?"
"This," said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the Viscount—"if you've finished, we may as well destroy it," and forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty fireplace.
"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle, louder than before, "'pon my soul, now, if you mean to insinuate—" Here he paused, staring at Barnabas, and with his whiskers fiercer than ever.