"I have nothing to complain of so far as health is concerned, Mr. d.y.k.e.

Buster, a chair for the gentleman."

"I have come to read you a poem, Thomas."

"Indeed?" said Moore. "Buster, two chairs for the gentleman."

"You will have your joke, Thomas," observed Mr. d.y.k.e, with an indulgent smile, as he seated himself.

"I have n't much else, sir," said Moore, "that's why I value it so highly. How is Bessie, sir?"

"She is well and working hard on her new part. The new piece is produced at Drury Lane in a week."

"I know," said Moore. "Bessie is getting on, is n't she?"

"Indeed she is, Thomas," replied Mr. d.y.k.e, proudly. "The manager says if she does as well as he expects in the next piece, he will allow her to play Lydia in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's great comedy, 'The Rivals.'"

"So they revive d.i.c.ky's play? They do well, for they have had nothing since to equal it except 'The School for Scandal.'"

The old gentleman cleared his throat modestly.

"Quite true, Thomas, and for that very reason I am preparing to write a comedy myself."

"Bravo, sir. Surely it is a shame only one Irishman should wear laurels for play-writing."

"Do you know Mr. Sheridan, Thomas?"

"Not I, sir, though both of us received our education at the same school some thirty years apart. Dr. Whyte taught us both, and admits even now that he considered Sheridan but little better than a dunce."

"So I have heard Mr. Sheridan himself declare," observed Mr. d.y.k.e. "A great man, Thomas, a great man."

"You know him, sir?" asked Moore, a shade of envy for a moment perceptible in his voice.

"I met him a fortnight ago at Sir Percival's house. Needless to say I was honored, Thomas."

"Quite needless, sir. Was he sober?"

"Part of the time," answered Mr. d.y.k.e, reluctantly.

"Ah," said Moore, "that must have been early in the evening. Does Bessie know him?"

"Yes, Thomas. He was so kind as to give her his personal opinion of the airs and graces suitable as business for the character of Lydia, for he will have no one even mention the possibility of her not obtaining the part."

"Look here now," said Moore, quickly. "You just bear in mind what sort of a killer that same gay old lad is with the ladies. I 'll not have him making love to Bessie, if I have to tell him so on the street. He is an old rake, sir, and there is no more dangerous man in London, for all his years."

"Tut, tut, Thomas," said Mr. d.y.k.e in benign reproof. "Mr. Sheridan is a married man."

"I know," replied Moore, doubtfully, "but I have often heard that they are the worst kind. By the way, how is that distinguished philanthropist, Sir Percival Lovelace?"

"You must not sneer at him, Thomas. Bessie and I owe everything to him."

"Never fear. He expects to be paid one way or another," growled Moore, full of suspicions but absolutely lacking in proof.

"Thanks to his influence, my verses are much in demand. No doubt you have seen a number of them published?"

"I have that, and read them eagerly. Ah, you too are getting up in the world, Mr. d.y.k.e."

"I flatter myself it is so," replied the old gentleman pompously.

"Shall I speak a word to Sir Percival in your favor, Thomas? He could help you much, being, as you know, an intimate friend of the Prince himself."

"Thank you, no," answered Moore, savagely. "I 'll get where I aim without his a.s.sistance or rot where I am contentedly. You don't see Sir Percival as I do, sir."

"Evidently not," replied Mr. d.y.k.e, blandly. "I find in him a firm and powerful friend, who has exerted himself much in my behalf, while you regard him as--"

"My view of him is n't fit for such lips as yours, Mr. d.y.k.e,"

interrupted Moore. "We will say no more about him. I only hope you may be correct in your opinion of the gentleman."

"Have you heard the news from home?" asked Mr. d.y.k.e, polishing his gla.s.ses, preparatory to unrolling the ma.n.u.script, which he had placed upon the table between them.

"Not I, sir. It's a fortnight since I have heard from my mother, though I write to her twice a week. Father is ailing, no doubt. He is getting on in years, you know. But then their news is only of Dublin. I have heard nothing from Dalky at all."

"Winnie Farrell was married to Captain Arbuckle last Wednesday week."

Moore gave a start.

"You don't say so, sir? Are you sure?"

"Sure as man can be. They are off on their honeymooning now. I had a letter from Squire Farrell himself. By the way, Terence has come to London and is studying law."

"I hope the rascal will keep out of my way," said Moore, viciously. "A sneak, if ever there was one."

"You quarrelled with him, Thomas?"

"I did, sir, and licked him well, too. Tell me, Mr. d.y.k.e, is Bessie still angry with me?"

The old gentleman sighed and put on his gla.s.ses.

"I am afraid so, Thomas," he said, gravely. "She never mentions your name, though I do my best to interest her in your doings. Now for the poem, lad. It is a satire, Thomas, a satire on the Prince of Wales. Oh, I cook him to a turn, Thomas. Ah, how he would squirm if I dared to have it published."

Moore leaned over the table and took the ma.n.u.script from his guest in a manner more vigorous than polite.

"If you did have it published, you 'd be dropped by society like a hot potato, and Bessie would lose her position at Drury Lane," he said.

"You would be in a nice fix then, would n't you, Robin d.y.k.e, Esquire?"

"If worst came to worst, even then I would still have the pension guaranteed me by Sir Percival," replied the elder poet, obstinately.

"You would," a.s.sented Moore, emphatically, "_for about five minutes_.

Mr. d.y.k.e, Irishman and patriot that you are, you do wrong every time you write a line that compromises your position here in London. Thanks to the efforts of Sir Percival, you have been nicely received; your verses are purchased and printed; success such as you have never known before is yours, and yet in spite of all this that old taint in you leads you to write in secret poems which would be your ruin if they ever saw the light. Good G.o.d, sir! Have you no thought of Bessie at all? You must think of Bessie. _You must_."