But in a while, as they turned
out of the rush of Holborn Hill, he sighed, threw back his shoulders,
and spoke.
"Nearly there now, my dear fellow, this is the Garden."
"Garden?" said Barnabas, glancing about. "Where?"
"Here, sir; we're in it,--Hatton Garden. Charmingly rustic spot,
you'll observe, delightfully rural retreat! Famous for strawberries
once, I believe,--flowers too, of course. Talking of flowers, sir, a
few of 'em still left to--ah--blush unseen? I'm one, Barrymaine's
another--a violet? No. A lily? No. A blush-rose? Well, let us say a
blush-rose, but damnably run to seed, like the rest of us.
And--ah--talking of Barrymaine, I ought, perhaps, to warn you that
we may find him a trifle--queer--a leetle touched perhaps." And
Mr. Smivvle raised an invisible glass, and tossed down its imaginary
contents with an expression of much beatitude.
"Is he given to--that sort of thing?"
"Sir," said Mr. Smivvle, "can you blame one who seeks forgetfulness
in the flowing bowl--and my friend Barry has very much to
forget--can you blame him?"
"No, poor fellow!"
"Sir, allow me to tell you my friend Barry needs no man's pity,
though I confess I could wish Chichester was not quite so
generous--in one respect.
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