Pangbutt’s eyes were fixed critically upon his own survey of this man’s past, and he had but half listened to the other’s words:
“On the whole,” said he drily, “you have not been very fortunate, then?”
Anthony laughed sadly, but said nothing.
It was definitely borne in upon him that he would never be able to ask this man for money.
The other was embarrassed by the silence:
“What are you going to do?” he asked uncomfortably.
Anthony roused himself. He took up the thread of his appeal, but he now went on vaguely—he felt that it was hopeless:
“Oh, ah, yes.... Well, my verse is sunk to the honour of neglect—which is not a matter wholly wanting in subtle flattery, since all the clever young men tell me it is the reward of true poetry. But—here’s food!” he cried, as the door opened and the butler entered, carrying a tray, well laden: “Here’s food—so poetry go hang!” He seized the carving-knife almost before Dukes had set down the tray; and the austere servant took up the other discarded empty tray and softly withdrew from the room. “A most radiant fowl!” cried Anthony, carving it with swift precision.... “I say, Paul—you won’t mind my taking the wings in my pocket for the youngster—he’s been a little sickly of late!”
He carved off the wings and breast, and his searching glance fell on a large handsome quarto that lay upon the throne by his side.
“Hullo!” said he—“a large-paper edition!” He turned it over and saw that it was verse. “What idiot has been writing verses now?”