"Viscount Deafenem, sir!"
Barnabas started and hurried forward, very conscious, very nervous, and for once uncertain of himself by reason of his new and unaccustomed splendor. But the look in the Viscount's boyish eyes, his smiling nod of frank approval, and the warm clasp of his hand, were vastly reassuring.
"Why, Bev, that coat's a marvel!" he exclaimed impulsively, "it is, I swear it is; turn round—so! Gad, what a fit!"
"I hoped you 'd approve of it, Dick," said Barnabas, a little flushed, "you see, I know very little about such things, and—"
"Approve of it! My dear fellow! And the cut!"
"Now—as for these—er—pantaloons, Dick—?"
"Dashing, my dear fellow,—devilish dashing!"
"But rather too—too tight, don't you think?"
"Can't be, Bev, tighter the better,—have 'em made too tight to get into, and you're right; look at mine, if I bend, I split,—deuced uncomfortable but all the mode, and a man must wear something! My fellow has the deuce of a time getting me into 'em, confound 'em. Oh, for ease, give me boots and buckskins!" Hereupon the Viscount having walked round Barnabas three times, and viewed him critically from every angle, nodded with an air of finality. "Yes, they do you infinite credit, my dear fellow,—like everything else;" and he cast a comprehensive glance round the luxurious apartment.
"The credit of it all rests entirely with Peterby," said Barnabas.
"John—where are you?" But Peterby had disappeared.