He tossed the coin in the air abstractedly, caught it and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket as Sheridan rejoined him. The latter had not seen the carriage and its occupants.
“A fine ash-heap we’ve made,” said the wit, “and a pity too! Curse catch me, I wish I’d written it! If it were mine, instead of suppressing, I’d print a new edition and be damned to them. If they won’t forget this, cram another down their throats and let them choke on it! Come and drink a bottle of vin de Graves with me at the Cocoa-Tree,” he continued persuasively. “Tom Moore is in town. We’ll get him and go to the Italian Opera afterward. What do you say?”
Gordon shook his head. “Not to-day. I have an appointment at my rooms. Hobhouse pretends he wants to read my new manuscript.”
“To-morrow, then. I want to get the rights of the latest apocryphal stories of you the clubs are relishing.”
“Stories? What stories?”
Sheridan cleared his throat uneasily. “Surely, letters—newspapers—must have reached you in Greece?”
“Newspapers!” exclaimed Gordon. “I haven’t read one in a year. As for letters—well, it has been little better. So the newspapers have been talking of me, eh?”
“Not that any one in particular believes them,” interposed his companion hastily, “or anything the Scourge prints, for that matter!”
“The Scourge? That was the worst of the lot before I left. It’s still mud-flinging, is it? I suppose I might have expected it. There’s scarcely a witling-scribbler in London I didn’t grill with that cursed Satire of mine, that they won’t let stay in its grave. But the newspaper wiseacres—what under the canopy can they know of my wanderings? I haven’t set eyes on a journalist since I left.”
“Of course, they’re perfectly irresponsible!”