The Rector laughed heartily, and Maurice joined in his mirth, much to Carriston’s delight.
“Ah, now you are more like the boy I knew!” he said, slipping his arm into that of Roylands, and leading him to the door; “did I not tell you I would cure you? I will complete the cure to-morrow.”
“But it might give you pain.”
“No, no; don’t think about that,” said Carriston hastily. “If I can do you a service, I don’t mind a passing twinge of regret. But here we are at the drawing-room door. Let us join the ladies.”
“And Crispin.”
“By the way,” said the Rector, placing his hand on Roylands as he was about to open the door, “who is Crispin?”
“Every one in London has been trying to find that out for the last two years.”
“What is he?”
“The new poet; the coming Tennyson, the future Browning. No one knows who he is, or where he comes from. He is called Crispin tout court.”
“A most perplexing person. Are you quite sure”—