"Admire!" said the Viscount, rising.
"Adore!" said the Captain, rising also.
"Therefore, gentlemen," pursued the Marquis, "with our host's permission, we will—"
"Stay a moment, Jerningham," said the Viscount,—"it is only right to tell you that my friend Beverley is one with us in this,—he also is a suitor for the hand of Lady Cleone."
"Is he, b'gad!" exclaimed the Captain. "Dooce take me!" said the Marquis, "might have known it though. Ah, well! one more or less makes small difference among so many."
So Barnabas rose, and lifting his glass with the others, drank to—
"Our Lady Cleone—God bless her!"
CHAPTER XXIX
WHICH DESCRIBES SOMETHING OF THE MISFORTUNES OF RONALD BARRYMAINE
Holborn was in full song,—a rumbling, roaring melody, a clattering, rushing, blaring symphony made up of the grind of wheels upon resounding cobble-stones, the thudding beat of horse-hoofs, the tread of countless feet, the shrill note of voices; it was all there, the bass and the treble blending together, harsh, discordant, yet the real symphony of life.