"Yes; and mind you persuade him. I shall be so amused to see what Jan Delane says, if he writes us a song."
"He won't do it."
"He won't, if you go in that despairing mood. Now write at once. Write as if you expected it."
The outcome of this conversation, together with the idea which had struck the Squire, was, of course, that Dale received, almost by the same post, an urgent request for a militant Radical ditty, and a delicate, but very flattering, suggestion that it would be most agreeable to His Royal Highness—indeed he had hinted as much in response to Lord Cransford's question—to find the loyalty of Denborough, as it were, crystallized in one of Mr. Bannister's undying productions. For the first time in his life, Dale felt a grudge against the Muses for their endowment. Could not these people let him alone? He did not desire to put himself forward; he only asked to be let alone. It was almost as repugnant to him—at least, he thought it would be—to take part in Lord Cransford's pageant, as it certainly would be to hear the Radicals of Denborough screeching out his verses. He was a man of letters, not a politician, and he thought both requests very uncalled for. It might be that the Grange folks had some claim on him, but his acquaintance with Sir Harry Fulmer was of the slightest; and what did the man mean by talking of his "well-known views"? He was as bad as the Doctor himself. Presently Philip Hume came in, and Dale disclosed his perplexities.
"I want to please people," he said, "but this is rather strong."
"Write both," suggested Philip.
"That will enrage both of them."
"Then write neither."
"Really, Phil, you might show some interest in the matter."
"I am preoccupied. Have you been in the town to-day, Dale?"