Charles scarcely glanced at the proof.
"Very proper," he said, "and what about my poems?"
"Ah! you always have your joke, Mr. Lovely. That's always the way with poets—they will have their jokes just when I'm so busy too," said Mr. Virgin sidling across the room to a shelf full of ledgers bound in hideous marble boards.
"How many sold, these three months?"
"One, Mr. Lovely. One copy. You see it entered."
"Who was the purchaser," said Charles with affectation of great indifference. "Not a lady, I presume?"
"Ha, ha, you poets—so fond of the women. Singers and poets always like the women. There was Signor Amoroso, d'ye know him? The famous Tenore, now singing every night at Vauxhall—he used to buy all my books about the ladies. But, pray excuse my chatter, Mr. Lovely. I'm sure I oughtn't to be talking, just when I'm so busy too. Let me see, who was the purchaser—ah! here it is—it was Miss——"
"Courteen?" Charles let slip in his eagerness.
"Ha-ha! ha-ha!" laughed the foxy-faced bookseller, "Ha-ha! You must keep your love-secrets better than that. No, it wasn't Miss——" he pursued.
"Oh!" said Charles coldly.