"I would have you—even more than this, Peterby."
"More, sir?"
"I would have you, sometimes, forget that you are only 'the best valet in the world,' and remember that you are—a man: one in whom I can confide; one who has lived in this great world, and felt, and suffered, and who can therefore advise me; one I may trust to in an emergency; for London is a very big place, they tell me, and my friends are few—or none—and—do you understand me, Peterby?"
"Sir," said Peterby in an altered tone, "I think I do."
"Then—sit down, John, and let us talk."
With a murmur of thanks Peterby drew up a chair and sat watching
Barnabas with his shrewd eyes.
"You will remember," began Barnabas, staring up at the ceiling again, "that when I engaged you I told you that I intended to—hum! to—cut a figure in the fashionable world?"
"Yes, sir; and I told you that,—after what happened in a certain wood,—it was practically impossible."
"You mean because I thrashed a scoundrel?"
"I mean because you knocked down a friend of the Prince Regent."
"And is Carnaby so very powerful, Peterby?"
"Sir, he is—the Prince's friend! He is also as great a Buck as George Hanger, as Jehu, or Jockey of Norfolk, and as famous, almost, as the late Sir Maurice Vibart."
"Ah!" said Barnabas.
"And since the retirement of Mr. Brummell, he and the Marquis of
Jerningham have to some extent taken his place and become the
Arbiters of Fashion."
"Oh!" said Barnabas.
"And furthermore, sir, I would warn you that he is a dangerous enemy, said to be one of the best pistol-shots in England."
"Hum," said Barnabas, "nevertheless, I mean to begin—"
"To begin, sir?"
"At once, Peterby."
"But—how, sir?"
"That is for you to decide, Peterby."
"Me, sir?"
"You, Peterby."
Here Peterby took himself by the chin again, and looked at Barnabas with thoughtful eyes and gloomy brow.
"Sir," said he, "the World of Fashion is a trivial world where all must appear trivial; it is a place where all must act a part, and where those are most regarded who are most affected; it is a world of shams and insincerity, and very jealously guarded."
"So I have heard," nodded Barnabas.
"To gain admission you must, first of all, have money."
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"Birth—if possible."
"Hum," said Barnabas.
"Wit and looks may be helpful, but all these are utterly useless unless you have what I may call the magic key."
"And what is that?"
"Notoriety, sir."
"For what?"
"For anything that will serve to lift you out of the ruck—to set you above the throng,—you must be one apart—an original."
"Originality is divine!" said Barnabas.
"More or less, sir," added Peterby, "for it is very easily achieved. Lord Alvanly managed it with apricot tarts; Lord Petersham with snuff-boxes; Mr. Mackinnon by his agility in climbing round drawing-rooms on the furniture; Jockey of Norfolk by consuming a vast number of beef-steaks, one after the other; Sir George Cassilis, who was neither rich nor handsome nor witty, by being insolent; Sir John Lade by dressing like a stagecoach-man, and driving like the devil; Sir George Skeffington by inventing a new color and writing bad plays; and I could name you many others beside—"
