She glided swiftly to his side. “Robert, let me——” she began passionately, when the cold voice of Sir William Creech rooted her to the spot in terror. Out of the shadow walked her uncle, and ignoring her presence he addressed himself to Robert.
“Well, Mr. Burns!” he said angrily, “perhaps ye’ll condescend to notice me now, your publisher, Sir William Creech.”
“I hope ye’re well,” returned Robert indifferently.
Sir William quivered with rage. “Ye’ve been in town a week, and yet ye have not called to notify me of your arrival,” he sputtered.
“I quite forgot, Sir William,” answered Rob repentently; “you see I’m not a good business man. However, to-morrow I will call and we will arrange our much neglected business matters.”
“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly? I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled.
“Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper? I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark on any undertaking it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or fee would be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed dangerously.
“You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William sarcastically.
“Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary commodity, but extremely elusive, and to show you that money has no terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some £300 are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong determination.
“Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently, but Robert raised his hand with a stately gesture.