But
now, as Peterby withdrew, and Barnabas turned to greet him, gravely
polite--he hesitated, frowned, and seemed a little at a loss.
"Egad!" said he ruefully, "it seems a deuce of a time since we saw
each other, Beverley."
"A fortnight!" said Barnabas.
"And it's been a busy fortnight for both of us, from what I hear."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Especially for--you."
"Yes, Viscount."
"Beverley," said he, staring very hard at the toe of his varnished
shoe, "do you remember the white-haired man we met, who called
himself an Apostle of Peace?"
"Yes, Viscount."
"Do you remember that he said it was meant we should be--friends?"
"Yes."
"Well I--think he was right,--I'm sure he was right. I--didn't know
how few my friends were until I--fell out with you. And so--I'm here
to--to ask your pardon, and I--don't know how to do it, only--oh,
deuce take it! Will you give me your hand, Bev?"
But before the words had well left his lips, Barnabas had sprang
forward, and so they stood, hand clasped in hand, looking into each
other's eyes as only true friends may.
"I--we--owe you so much, Bev--Clemency has told me--"
"Indeed, Dick," said Barnabas, a little hastily, "you are a
fortunate man to have won the love of so beautiful a woman, and one
so noble.
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