Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little
place in Worcestershire--King's Heath,--know it, perhaps? No?
Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks,
larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a
Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the
Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic--though devilish draughty,
upon my soul and honor!"
Here, finding that he still held the open letter in his hand,
Barnabas refolded it and thrust it into his pocket, while Mr. Smivvle
smilingly caressed his whiskers, and his bold, black eyes darted
glances here and there, from Barnabas mending his pen to the table,
from the table to the walls, to the ceiling, and from that altitude
they dropped to the table again, and hovered there.
"Sir," said Barnabas without looking up, "pray excuse the blot, the
pen was a bad one; I am making another, as you see."
Mr. Smivvle started, and raised his eyes swiftly. Stared at
unconscious Barnabas, rubbed his nose, felt for his whisker, and,
having found it, tugged it viciously.
"Blot, sir!" he exclaimed loudly; "now, upon my soul and honor--what
blot, sir?"
"This," said Barnabas, taking up his unfinished letter to the
Viscount--"if you've finished, we may as well destroy it," and
forthwith he crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the empty
fireplace.
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