Digby Smivvle were in a chastened mood, indeed
their habitual ferocity was mitigated to such a degree that they
might almost be said to wilt, or droop. Mr. Digby Smivvle drooped
likewise; in a word, Mr. Smivvle was despondent.
He sat in one of the rickety chairs, his legs stretched out to the
cheerless hearth, and stared moodily at the ashes of a long dead fire.
At the opening of the door he started and half rose, but seeing
Barnabas, sank back again.
"Beverley," he cried, "thank heaven you're safe back again--that is
to say--" he went on, striving to speak in his ordinary manner,
"that is to say,--I mean--ah--in short, my dear Beverley, I'm
delighted to see you!"
"Pray what do you mean by safe?"
"What do I mean?" repeated Mr. Smivvle, beginning to fumble for his
whisker with strangely clumsy fingers, "why, I mean--safe, sir,--a
very natural wish, surely?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "and you wished to see me, I think?"
"To see you?" echoed Mr. Smivvle, still feeling for his whisker,--"why,
yes, of course--"
"At least, the Viscount told me so."
"Ah? Deuced obliging of the Viscount,--very!"
"Are you alone?" Barnabas inquired, struck by Mr.
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