“They are trifles, Goldsmith, for they represent the trifling of a man of determination with his own future—with his own happiness and the happiness of others.”
“I protest, sir, I scarcely understand——”
“Your confusion, sir, shows that you do understand.”
“Nay, sir, you do not suppose that the lines which a poet writes in the character of a lover should be accepted as damning evidence that his own heart speaks.”
“Goldsmith, I am not the man to be deceived by any literary work that may come under my notice. I have read those verses of yours; sir, your heart throbs in every line.”
“Nay, sir, you would make me believe that my poor attempts to realise the feelings of one who has experienced the tender passion are more happy than I fancied.”
“Sir, this dissimulation is unworthy of you.”
“Sir, I protest that I—that is—no, I shall protest nothing. You have spoken the truth, sir; any dissimulation is unworthy of me. I wrote those verses out of my own heart—God knows if they are the first that came from my heart—I own it, sir. Why should I be ashamed to own it?”
“My poor friend, you have been Fortune's plaything all your life; but I did not think that she was reserving such a blow as this for you.”
“A blow, sir? Nay, I cannot regard as a blow that which has been the sweetest—the only consolation of a life that has known but few consolations.”