The man did not think it worth his while to turn around in recognition of Goldsmith's entrance; he finished his story and received Mrs. Abington's tribute of a laugh as a matter of course. Then he turned his head round as the visitor ventured to take a step or two toward the table, bowing profusely—rather too profusely for the part he was playing, the artistic perception of the actress told her.
“Ha, my little author!” cried the man at the table with the swagger of a patron.
“You are true to the tradition of the craft of scribblers—the best time for putting in an appearance is when supper has just been served.”
“Ah, sir,” said Goldsmith, “we poor devils are forced to wait upon the convenience of our betters.”
“Strike me dumb, sir, if 'tis not a pity you do not await their convenience in an ante-room—ay, or the kitchen. I have heard that the scribe and the cook usually become the best of friends. You poets write best of broken hearts when you are sustained by broken victuals.”
“For shame, Captain!” cried Mrs Abington. “Dr. Goldsmith is a man as well as a poet. He has broken heads before now.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
Captain Jackson laughed heartily at so quaint an idea, throwing himself back in his chair and pointing a contemptuous thumb at Oliver, who had advanced to the side of the actress, assuming the deprecatory smile of the bookseller's hack. He played the part very indifferently, the lady perceived.