"Then why do you ask?"
"There is a--person below, sir."
"A person?"
"Yes, sir,--very much so! Got 'is foot in the door--wouldn't take it
out--had to let 'em in--waiting in the 'all, sir."
"What's he like, who is he?"
"Whiskers, sir,--name of Snivels,--no card!" Here might have been
observed the same agitation of the plump legs.
"Ask him to wait."
"Beg pardon, sir--did you say--to wait?" (Agitation growing.)
"Yes. Say I'll be down at once." (Agitation extreme.)
"Meaning as you will--see 'im, sir?" (Agitation indescribable.)
"Yes," said Barnabas, "yes, of course."
The Gentleman-in-Powder bowed; his eye was calm, his brow unruffled,
but his legs!!! And his nose was more supercilious than ever as he
closed the door upon it.
Mr. Smivvle, meanwhile, was standing downstairs before a mirror,
apparently lost in contemplation of his whiskers, and indeed they
seemed to afford him a vast degree of pleasure, for he stroked them
with caressing fingers, and smiled upon them quite benevolently.
"Six pair of silver candlesticks!" he murmured. "Persian rugs!
Bric-a-brac, rare--costly pictures! He's a Nabob, by heaven,--yes he
is,--a mysterious young Nabob, wallowing in wealth! Five shillings?
--preposterous! we'll make it--ten,--and--yes, shall we say another
five for the pampered menial? By all means let us make it another
five shillings for the cursed flunkey,--here he comes!"
And indeed, at that moment the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder might
have been descried descending the stair rather more pompously than
usual.
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