"Come to-morrow."
"Nay, sir, I must speak with you now. I'm in a devilish mess and need the advice of a man who has seen—who has seen——"
"Well, sir?" said the Beau, shading his candle in such a way that the pallid flickering rays lit up the young man's countenance.
"D——! I don't know, Ripple, but for God's sake don't stand there with that infernal candle dancing all over my face. Let me come in."
Whether it was the note of misery in our hero's voice or his drawn face or merely a whim of a great man's naturally eccentrick mind that made the Beau beckon Charles to follow him upstairs to the tall white drawing-room, where even still the fire glowed dully, will never be known. Any way, beckon to him he did, and having set down the taper on the high mantelpiece, seated himself beside the fire and began meditatively to toast his embroidered morocco pumps.
There they sat in the great drawing-room, the King and his Heir Presumptive, and very ghostly they looked in the wan light, and very unreal the whole experience seemed to Charles in after life.
"'Tis about this book."
"What book?"
"This satire."
"You wrote it?"