“You are with me, Mr. Burke? Eh, what is the matter, Cousin Noll? Why do you work with your arm that way?”
“There are other gentlemen in the room, Mr. Dean,” said Oliver.
“They can wait,” cried Mr. Dean. “They are certain to be inferior to Mr. Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds. If I should be wrong, they will not feel mortified at what I have said.”
“This is Mr. Boswell, sir,” said Goldsmith.
“Mr. Boswell—of where, sir?”
“Mr. Boswell, of—of Scotland, sir.”
“Scotland, the land where the clergymen write plays for the theatre. Your clergymen might be better employed, Mr.—Mr.——”
“Boswell, sir.”
“Mr. Boswell. Yes, I hope you will look into this matter should you ever visit your country again—a remote possibility, from all that I can learn of your countrymen.”
“Why, sir, since Mr. Home wrote his tragedy of 'Douglas'——” began Boswell, but he was interrupted by the stranger.