They had now arrived at Reynolds's house in Leicester Square, Goldsmith and Burke—the former still talking eagerly—having waited for them to come up.
“Gentlemen,” said Reynolds, “you have all gone out of your accustomed way to leave me at my own door. I insist on your entering to have some refreshment. Mr. Burke, you will not refuse to enter and pronounce an opinion as to the portrait at which I am engaged of the charming Lady Betty Hamilton.”
“O matre pulchra filia pulchrior” said Goldsmith; but there was not much aptness in the quotation, the mother of Lady Betty having been the loveliest of the sisters Gunning, who had married first the Duke of Hamilton, and, later, the Duke of Argyll.
Before they had rung the bell the hall door was opened by Sir Joshua's servant, Ralph, and a young man, very elegantly dressed, was shown out by the servant.
He at once recognised Sir Joshua and then Garrick.
“Ah, my dear Sir Joshua,” he cried, “I have to entreat your forgiveness for having taken the liberty of going into your painting-room in your absence.”
“Your Lordship has every claim upon my consideration,” said Sir Joshua. “I cannot doubt which of my poor efforts drew you thither.”
“The fact is, Sir Joshua, I promised her Grace three days ago to see the picture, and as I think it likely that I shall meet her tonight, I made a point of coming hither. The Duchess of Argyll is not easily put aside when she commences to catechise a poor man, sir.”
“I cannot hope, my Lord, that the picture of Lady Betty commended itself to your Lordship's eye,” said Sir Joshua.
“The picture is a beauty, my dear Sir Joshua,” said the young man, but with no great show of ardour. “It pleases me greatly. Your macaw is also a beauty. A capital notion of painting a macaw on a pedestal by the side of the lady, is it not, Mr. Garrick—two birds with the one stone, you know?”