Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.
"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"
The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.
"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.
Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.
"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse—the multitude—the ah—the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir, —a Smivvle, every inch of me,—while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,' and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a friend—"
"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—"