"I believe," said he, smiling affably, "that I have the pleasure to
behold Viscount Devenham?"
"The same, sir," rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.
"You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?"
The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.
"No, I don't, sir."
Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.
"My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though
perhaps you don't remember my name, either?"
The Viscount took out his driving gloves and began to put them on.
"No, I don't, sir!" he answered dryly.
Mr. Smivvle felt for his whisker, found it, and smiled.
"Quite so, my Lord, I am but one of the concourse--the
multitude--the ah--the herd, though, mark me, my Lord, a Smivvle, sir,
--a Smivvle, every inch of me,--while you are the owner of 'Moonraker,'
and Moonraker's the word just now, I hear. But, sir, I have a
friend--"
"Indeed, sir," said the Viscount, in a tone of faint surprise, and
beckoning a passing ostler, ordered out his curricle.
"As I say," repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to search for his
whisker again, "I have a friend, my Lord--"
"Congratulate you," murmured the Viscount, pulling at his glove.
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