Bertha. In the meantime he may starve.
Mrs. Angell. Indeed, lady, he is starving now.
Burgum. Nonsense! One-half the troubles in life are due to gorging. Besides, I heard before we left Bristol that he had sent his mother some china and dress patterns—even British herb-tobacco and a pipe for his grandmother. Starving?—nonsense!
Mrs. Angell. That was over a month ago, sir. Then he always was telling of what he was going to do for his mother; but now he seems so hopeless, and still he writes so hopefully to her. I do not believe he has had a morsel of food these two days. He is too proud to take anything from me. He says he is not hungry, and yet he looks almost famished.
Bertha. Poor Chatterton!
Burgum. Why does he not work?
Mrs. Angell. He does work, sir—all night sometimes—writing, writing, writing.
Burgum. I mean at something profitable—looking up pedigrees, for instance,—the boy has a genius for pedigrees.
Mrs. Angell. I believe he is trying to get an appointment as a surgeon's mate. My husband, good man, offered to secure him a place as a compter; but Mr. Chatterton stormed about the house.
Burgum. A poet's gratitude.