"Very kind of him!" murmured the Viscount.
"And though, my Lord, though my name is not familiar, I think you will remember his; the name of my friend is "—here Mr. Smivvle, having at length discovered his whisker, gave it a fierce twirl,— "Ronald Barrymaine."
The Viscount's smooth brow remained unclouded, only the glove tore in his fingers; so he smiled, shook his head, and drawing it off, tossed it away.
"Hum?" said he, "I seem to have heard some such name—somewhere or other—ah! there's my Imp at last, as tight and smart as they make 'em, eh, Bev? Well, good-by, my dear fellow, I shan't forget Friday next." So saying, the Viscount shook hands, climbed into his curricle, and, with a flourish of his whip, was off and away in a moment.
"A fine young fellow, that!" exclaimed Mr. Smivvle; "yes, sir, regular out-and-outer, a Bang up! by heaven, a Blood, sir! a Tippy! a Go! a regular Dash! High, sir, high, damned high, like my friend Barrymaine,—indeed, you may have remarked a similarity between 'em, sir?"
"You forget, I have never met your friend," said Barnabas.
"Ah, to be sure, a great pity! You'd like him, for Barrymaine is a cursed fine fellow in spite of the Jews, dammem! yes,—you ought to know my friend, sir."
"I should be glad to," said Barnabas.
"Would you though, would you indeed, sir? Nothing simpler; call a chaise! Stay though, poor Barry's not himself to-day, under a cloud, sir. Youthful prodigalities are apt to bring worries in their train—chiefly in the shape of Jews, sir, and devilish bad shapes too! Better wait a day—say to-morrow, or Thursday—or even Friday would do."
"Let it be Saturday," said Barnabas.