“You don’t love poets?” said Saville.
“The glory of old has departed from them. I mean less from their pages than their minds. We have plenty of beautiful poets, but how little poetry breathing of a great soul!”
Here the door opened, and a Mr. Glosson was announced. There entered a little, smirking, neat-dressed man, prim as a lawyer or a house-agent.
“Ah, Glosson, is that you?” said Saville, with something like animation: “sit down, my good sir,—sit down. Well! well! (rubbing his hands); what news? what news?”
“Why, Mr. Saville, I think we may get the land from old ——. He has the right of the job. I have been with him all this morning. He asks six thousand pounds for it.
“The unconscionable dog! He got it from the crown for two.”
“Ah, very true,—very true: but you don’t see, sir,—you don’t see, that it is well worth nine. Sad times,—sad times: jobs from the crown are growing scarcer every day, Mr. Saville.”
“Humph! that’s all a chance, a speculation. Times are bad indeed, as you say: no money in the market; go, Glosson; offer him five; your percentage shall be one per cent. higher than if I pay six thousand, and shall be counted up to the latter sum.”
“He! he! he! sir!” grinned Glosson; “you are fond of your joke, Mr. Saville.”
“Well, now; what else in the market? never mind my friend: Mr. Godolphin—Mr. Glosson; now all gene is over; proceed,—proceed.”