"Yes, Natty Bell, yes, I be coming—coming. Oh, Barnabas, my lad, —my lad,—forgive me!"
Now in a while Barnabas turned; and behold! the candles glowed as brightly as ever, silver and glass shone and glittered as bravely as ever, but—the great room was empty, that is to say—very nearly. Of all that brilliant and fashionable company but two remained. Very lonely figures they looked, seated at the deserted table—the Viscount, crumbling up bread and staring at the table-cloth, and the Marquis, fidgeting with his snuff-box, and frowning at the ceiling.
To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was hoarse and by no means steady:
"My Lords," said he, "why haven't you—followed the others?"
"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see—speaking for myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I—hum!—the fact is—ha!—that is to say—oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing, with a muffled curse after every sneeze.
"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be less—conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."
"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend, and—there's my hand—Barnabas."
"Mine—too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over the—'ffects of this s-snuff—with a curse to it!"
"Oh Dick!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis—"
"Name's Bob to—my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his handkerchief. "Oh, damn this snuff!"