To these solitary figures Barnabas spoke, albeit his voice was
hoarse and by no means steady:
"My Lords," said he, "why haven't you--followed the others?"
"Why, you see," began the Marquis, frowning at the ceiling harder
than ever, and flicking open his snuff-box, "you see--speaking for
myself, of course, I say speaking for myself, I--hum!--the fact
is--ha!--that is to say--oh, dooce take it!" And, in his distress, he
actually inhaled a pinch of snuff and immediately fell a-sneezing,
with a muffled curse after every sneeze.
"Sirs," said Barnabas, "I think you'd better go. You will be
less--conspicuous. Indeed, you'd better go."
"Go?" repeated the Viscount, rising suddenly. "Go, is it? No, damme
if we do! If you are John Barty's son, you are still my friend,
and--there's my hand--Barnabas."
"Mine--too!" sneezed the Marquis, "'s soon as I've got over
the--'ffects of this s-snuff--with a curse to it!"
"Oh Dick!" said Barnabas, his head drooping, "Marquis--"
"Name's Bob to--my friends!" gasped the Marquis from behind his
handkerchief. "Oh, damn this snuff!"
"Why, Bev," said the Viscount, "don't take it so much to heart, man.
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