"Have I—displeased you in any way?"
"No, it is only that the 'best valet in the world' would be wasted on me any longer, and I shall not need you where I am going."
"Not as a—servant, sir?"
"No."
"Then, sir, may I remind you that I am also a—man? A man who owes all that he is to your generosity and noble trust and faith. And, sir, it seems to me that a man may sometimes venture where a servant may not—if you are indeed done with the Fashionable World, I have done with it also, for I shall never serve any other than you."
Then Barnabas turned away and coming to the mantel leaned there, staring blankly down at the empty hearth; and in a while he spoke, though without looking up:
"The Fashionable World has turned its polite back upon me, Peterby, because I am only the son of a village inn-keeper. But—much more than this—my lady has—has lost her faith in me, my fool's dream is over—nothing matters any more. And so I am going away to a place I have heard described by a pedler of books as 'the worst place in the world'—and indeed I think it is."
"Sir," said Peterby, "when do we start?"
Then, very slowly, Barnabas lifted his heavy head and looked at John Peterby; and, in that dark hour, smiled, and reaching out, caught and grasped his hand; also, when he spoke again, his voice was less hard and not so steady as before:
"Oh, John!" said he, "John Peterby—my faithful John! Come with me if you will, but you come as my—friend."