'Why, what do you mean?'
'A man in that moppet's livery, for moppet she is, my Lady or not my Lady, brought a note yesterday and he that had been hiding from her, like the honest man he used to be before she came trapesing after him.'
'A note? Was it anything like this?' asked Wogan, pulling from his pocket his own invitation to Lady Oxford's rout.
'It was very like that,' said Mrs. Barnes. 'I sent the fellow on with the scented thing.'
A note from Lady Oxford to George, an heroic epistle from Ariadne to Theseus! An invitation too! Ariadne invites Theseus to her rout, and for something more, conjectured Wogan, than the pleasure of winning his money at cards. Wogan's anxiety concerning Lady Oxford's attitude was much increased. There was the ballad, the camp in Hyde Park, there were the letters of invitation. Mr. Wogan thought it high time to see Theseus, and leaving Mrs. Barnes with a becoming blush on her features that laughed through their tears, he walked to Ryder Street.
Mr. Wogan knocked at the door in the deepening dusk. The landlady opened. She knew Wogan, who, indeed, had occupied her chambers at one time. She smiled all over her jolly face:
'Mr. Hilton! Taller than ever, and welcome as ever.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Kilburne, I shall soon rival the Monument, but I can still get under your lintel by stooping. Where is Mr. Johnson?'
'Mr. Johnson? Oh, sir, what a life that poor gentleman lives. Out all night, home in the morning with mud or dust on him to the shoulder, and so to bed all day.'
'Then Mr. Johnson must be wakened. I can do it, were he one of the seven sleepers. George!' cried Mr. Wogan, lifting up his voice.