Smivvle
hastened to explain. "Mr. Barnabas Beverley,--Mr. Ronald Barrymaine."
"You are--welcome, sir," said Mr. Barrymaine, speaking with
elaborate care, as if to make quite sure of his utterance. "Pray be
seated, Mr. Bev'ley. We--we are a little crowded I f-fear. Move
those boots off the chair, Dig. Indeed my apartment might be a
little more commodious, but it's all I have at p-present, and by God!"
he cried, suddenly fierce, "I shouldn't have even this but for Dig
here! Dig's the only f-friend I have in the world--except Chichester.
Push the brandy over, Dig. Of course there's--Cleone, but she's only
a sister, after all. Don't know what I should do if it wasn't for
Dig--d-do I, Dig? And Chichester of course. Give Mr. Bev'ley a chair.
Dig. I'll get him--glass!" Hereupon Mr. Smivvle hurried forward with
a chair which, like all the rest of the furniture, had long ago seen
its best days, during which manoeuvre he contrived to whisper
hurriedly:
"Poor Barry's decidedly 'touched' to-day, a little more so than usual,
but you'll excuse him I know, my dear fellow. Hush!" for Barrymaine,
who had crossed to the other end of the room, now turned and came
towards them, swaying a little, and with a glass in his hand.
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