"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"
"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,—"why, yes, of course—"
"At least, the Viscount told me so."
"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,—very!"
"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr. Smivvle's hesitating manner, and he glanced toward the door of what was evidently a bedroom.
"Alone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "is the precise and only word for it. You have hit the nail exactly—upon the nob, sir." Here, having found his whisker, Mr. Smivvle gave it a fierce wrench, loosed it, and clenching his fist, smote himself two blows in the region of the heart. "Sir," said he, "you behold in me a deserted and therefore doleful ruminant chewing reflection's solitary cud. And, sir,—it is a bitter cud, cursedly so,—wherein the milk of human kindness is curdled, sir, curdled most damnably, my dear Beverley! In a word, my friend Barry—wholly forgetful of those sacred bonds which the hammer of Adversity alone can weld,—scorning Friendship's holy obligations, has turned his back upon Smivvle,—upon Digby,—upon faithful Dig, and—in short has—ah—hopped the mutual perch, sir."
"Do you mean he has left you?"
"Yes, sir. We had words this morning—a good many and, the end of it was—he departed—for good, and all on your account!"
"My account?"
"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages, and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"